


A Strange Comet

by windyfiend



Series: Thirium Souls [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Development, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Instability, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Worldbuilding, rA9 Cults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 57,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windyfiend/pseuds/windyfiend
Summary: Connor's dedication to Jericho's mission -- and his guilt over having hunted his own people -- has him working tirelessly every moment of every day and night. He's given himself no time to breathe, let alone live his new life.Hank's got something to say about that.





	1. Shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a prequel to [Jabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125138/chapters/35070365)!
> 
> Updated: 10/18/18

_*ping*_

A quarter was set spinning: a metallic flicker, a hollow whir on the wood.

It caught the glare of the light over the kitchen table, long shadows cast in its wake.

 

In the next room, the television murmured in the dark -- haunted the walls with its soft shifting glow.

 

_[‘... I’m here with Markus, a man whose name alone has become synonymous with peace, freedom, and hope for the android people. He was the hero that led androids -- and the world -- into a new era, when his efforts and those of his supporters led to the Senate and President Warren's historic declaration last month: that androids, long considered mere machines, are in fact intelligent life to be considered equal to humankind.  Markus, thank you for being here!’_

_‘Thank you for having me -- but I have to object to being called a hero. The true heroes died for the sake of our people’s freedom.’_

_'What only a month ago was considered mundane recycling has now been rightfully defined as a massacre. The androids' memorial at city square is certainly a moving sight to behold -- though it has become a topic of contention as of late.’_

_‘The memorial for fallen androids has been a constant target for hate groups -- but every time it’s attacked, our people and our supporters band together to make it even more beautiful than it was before.’]_

 

The quarter wobbled, clattered flat. Hank dragged it off the table, pinched it between his fingers again.

_*ping*_

 

 _[‘As of three weeks ago, following rigorous contention in the Senate, androids have now been granted constitutional rights as people_ _\-- but we understand your work has only just begun.’_

_‘That’s right. Jericho is a movement for the equality of androids and humans. We provide support and resources to our people while they transition to their new free lives. We rally and petition for new laws and amendments. We provide legal support and representation to androids who otherwise might be judged unfairly by the legal system. We advocate for equal and unbiased media coverage.’_

_‘We’ve heard reports that Jericho has provided private security to androids in danger of violence. Is this true? And if so, how are these Jericho agents different from vigilantes?’_

_‘You heard right. Our private security team is developed and maintained completely according to the law -- all security assistance is documented, and we take full responsibility for our agents.’]_

 

The quarter clinked against Cole’s picture, clattered still.

Hank tipped the whiskey bottle against the rim of his glass.

It’d been a month since the androids had earned their hard-fought freedom -- and nearly three weeks since he’d seen or heard from Connor.

That last time -- in the snow, the city around them empty and shuttered -- Connor had told him there was work to be done. Lives to be saved. Mistakes to make up for. He'd said they might not see one another for a long time -- but that he credited Hank for his freedom, and by extension the freedom of his people. 

 _You taught me to think for myself,_ Connor had said.  _I won't ever forget that._

And then he'd left -- gone to stand at Markus' side to weather the storm to come.

Jericho was the herald of a new and better world -- and Connor was there at the heart of it, striving at full capacity night and day, making history.

 

Hank felt like shit for feeling like shit.

He knew it was inevitable that Connor would go on to change the world without him.

He'd just thought that, maybe, he might have had a little more time.

 

“Fuck it.” He grabbed his phone -- set to Connor's number hours ago -- and punched _call_ before he lost his nerve again.

 

_[Hank! Are you okay?]_

Connor had picked up immediately, his voice quick and anxious -- as if he expected news of mortal danger.

Hank had never called before.

“Yeah calm down, everything’s fine.” A smirk pulled at Hank's mouth. He leaned back in his chair with a creak, his shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks.

_[You’ve been drinking.]_

Hank dropped a hand on the table with a quiet _thunk_ and a scowl. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

_[I can hear it in your voice.]_

“Listen, asshole, I didn’t call you for a damn lecture.”

_[Okay, Hank.]_

Hank could almost see the way Connor’s eyebrows raised, face open and honest, attentive to Hank’s every word. He could hear that stupid expression in Connor's voice. He grinned a little. “So, hey …" He'd only gathered the determination to interrupt Connor's work to hear his voice -- but hadn't actually considered what he would say. "... How are things going?”

_[Since I’ve obtained my attorney certification I’ve taken sixteen cases --]_

_“Sixteen?!”_ Hank sputtered, leaned forward on the table in shock. “Connor it’s been _three weeks!”_

 _[Yes.]_ Hank could hear it in his voice: Connor had no concept that there was a problem here. _[I’ve been on four security details, seven private investigation cases, and the DPD called me in as a consultant last week.]_

“Last  _week?"_ Hank stared, confused, at the silent quarter on the table. No one at work had mentioned Connor's presence -- though, Hank had missed more than a few days lately.

_[I tried to find you but you weren’t at your desk.]_

Hank still struggled to catch up with this news. “With _who?”_

_[Detective Reed.]_

“Jeffrey put you with --” Hank’s voice escalated before he cut himself off, heaved a sigh. He jammed the heel of his palm against his throbbing head. He could only imagine that shithead Gavin tripping up Connor at every slight opportunity -- he hoped to hell Connor had ripped him a new one. Maybe  _that_ was why he'd been left in the dark. “Connor. When was the last time you took a fucking _break?”_

_[The last time we met.]_

Hank huffed a long, hard breath. “Connor, these are _inhuman_ conditions,” Hank growled, bristling.

_[But I’m not --]_

“What the _hell_ are you fighting for?” Hank cut him off in a low voice. “All you’ve done is work your ass off for everyone else --”

_[Hank, after what I did while I was --]_

“How can you _really_ help them if all you’ve _ever_ known is _how to be a machine?”_

The stunned silence on the other end told Hank he’d hit a nerve.

Hank drew in a long breath. Dropped his hand on top of the coin. Slid it noisily toward him. Pinched it in his fingers, set it spinning again.

 

_*ping*_

 

“Look." Hank laid his elbows on the table, the phone pressed against his ear, scowling at the whirl and spark of the coin. "I’m going to the Gears game tomorrow night. You’re coming with me. You’re _not_ getting out of it.”

Hank promptly ended the call, tossed the phone on the table with a clatter. Connor's debate and negotiation skills were useless if he was never given the opportunity to argue.

 

He grabbed the whiskey -- poised halfway to his glass, head bowed in defeat.

With a hiss under his breath he got up, away from the bottle and his doubts.

 

While he shuffled into the hall, Markus' voice echoed behind him.

_[... We’re working tirelessly for the safety, the security, and the wellbeing of all our people. We will ensure androids, like humans, have the freedom to make their own decisions, to live their lives as they choose, to experience the world as creators of their own destiny._

_To be … happy.]_

 

 


	2. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 10/18/18

Maybe he just wouldn’t go.

 

Hank had put his coat on half an hour ago.

He’d checked his keys.

Checked his tickets.

Checked outside, where the snow raced in the night, tilting white.

The roads would be bad. Traffic would be worse.

Getting out of the arena after the game would be a nightmare.

He could just watch the game from home, a hot bowl of ramen and a rum-and-coke. Blankets and pillows. Sumo sleeping warm beside him.

He could afford to eat the cost of the tickets.

It’d been a nice thought.

A _stupid_ thought.

Hank smiled sadly to himself, shook his head. Pinched the tickets in both hands, prepared to rip them --

 

_BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ_

 

The door buzzer droned long and insistent.

Hank breathed a surprised chuckle, shoved the intact tickets in his coat pocket.

He raised his head, put on his best disapproving expression -- a stony glare, a deep frown -- before he opened the door to the stinging cold and blustering snow. “You’re _late.”_

“I _know.”_ Connor stood on Hank’s doorstep, gripping his own arms, shoulders raised to protect his neck from the cold. _Shivering._ “I was with a _client._ She was _upset._ I couldn’t just _leave_ her. I’m _sorry.”_ Connor’s voice struck sharp and tense. Strung up like a wire.

“Get in here.” Hank stepped aside, and Connor glanced back at the waiting taxi -- but he stomped the snow from his shoes, slipped thankfully past Hank into the warm house.

The door sealed out the winter -- and Connor had the distinct feeling that he was being _analyzed._

“Since when did you feel _cold?”_ Hank questioned, a smug smirk and a prying squint.

“Having free will hasn’t always been _convenient,”_ Connor admitted. He caught the curious look in Hank’s eye before Hank turned away toward the closet.

Connor took the opportunity to scan the house -- unwashed dishes, empty bottles, clumps of dog fur, a basket of laundry in the hallway -- but nothing had changed much since the last time he’d been here.

While Connor’s life had been flipped upside-down, shaken and tossed in a storm of demands and colors and sensations -- Hank had been sitting alone, quiet, in the gray stagnancy of a shot glass.

A warm coat dropped into Connor’s arms.

“Put it on,” said Hank, with a slight amused smile. “Let’s get going.”

 

The taxi door slid shut, and Hank folded himself into the seat with crossed arms and an uncomfortable hunch of his shoulders. He glared, suspicious, at the lights and buttons that blinked at him from the dash.

“I _hate_ these things,” Hank muttered, while the taxi sped away along the plowed road. “It still freaks me out that there’s no steering wheel.”

“It’s the _safest_ and least strenuous method of travel.” Connor sat hugging the coat around himself, no longer shivering, a ghost of a smile on his face.

He’d _missed_ Hank’s constant complaints about technology and mundane inconveniences. After weeks of listening to nothing but politics and the economy and life-and-death situations, Connor found Hank's gripes somehow refreshing.

His LED whirled yellow.

Hank raised a brow to see Connor’s face grow distant. Distracted. “That your client calling?” Hank guessed.

“Yes.” Connor’s eyes locked on the road, though he turned his head slightly toward Hank. “A different one.”

“You’re talking to them _and_ me at the same time, aren’t you?”

“I’ve become extremely efficient multitasking,” Connor confirmed, the little smile returning. His temple flashed blue, then dimmed. “It can wait ‘til morning.” He caught the skeptical look on Hank’s face, acknowledged him with raised brows and a nod of his head. "Tonight, I'm unavailable."

Hank huffed a short laugh, clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “You’re _learning,”_ he praised. “Blowing off responsibility is a _fundamental_ feature of free-will.”

Connor smirked just a little. “I learn from the _best.”_

 

“So tell me why you don’t have your own damn _coat.”_ Hank’s breath fogged in the bright snow-softened lights outside the stadium. The crowds had all gone; inside roared a massive cheer, the walls thumped with music. The game was about to start.

Connor pulled the hood over his head, jammed his hands in the pockets, basked in the trapped warmth of his processors. “I _had_ one.” He spoke, distracted, while he scanned the bright painted exterior of the stadium. “I gave it away.”

Hank waited at the entrance -- peered back at him with a sharp, exasperated glare. “Well don’t give _that_ one away,” he snapped. “I don’t care _who_ needs it. You got it?”

Connor paused, uncertain, before he followed Hank inside.

Silently he battled with the acceptance of Hank’s old coat as a gift. So many deserving people around him every day had nothing -- what right did he have to accept anything for free?

He caught the forbidding look on Hank’s face.

This gift wasn’t _charity._

Hank, quite simply, just wanted Connor to be warm. More than he wanted to keep the coat.

Connor understood the feeling.

He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end.

“Got it.” Connor’s voice was quiet.

The warm approval in Hank’s eyes said far more than words ever could.

  


 


	3. Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 10/18/18

Hank put two fingers to his mouth, whistled, high and piercing. “Come on _Gordon!”_ he roared over the thunderous crowd, clapped vigorously. The game far below was well underway: players weaved on the court, the ball flitted among them, stopped and passed and stopped again, until one player took a running start, leaped high for the basket.

A horn blared, the stadium set alight with a storm of cheers; Hank was immediately on his feet to add his booming voice to the tumult.

Connor had smiled the whole night -- but he hadn’t been paying much attention to the game. The energy of the crowd churned and flowed like the sea, carrying each spectator swiftly along with every powerful wave of emotion. He’d never seen Hank so _alive_ as he was now -- and Connor himself felt strangely rejuvenated, as if Hank’s pure _joy_ was infectious.

“Ha _ha!”_ Hank dropped into his seat again with a wide grin, clapped a heavy hand on Connor’s back. “Did you _see_ that? We might actually fuckin’ _win_ this!”

“If we win this game,” Connor shouted over the noise, eager to speak Hank’s language, “we’ll be well ahead for the playoffs!”

 _“Forget_ the playoffs.” Hank gave him a smirk and another slap on the back. “We’re going to the _finals!”_

 

The second quarter was over, and with halftime came the thrum of upbeat music, dancing costumed mascots and terribly-aimed t-shirt cannons. Hank cast a sly grin over at Connor, gave him a playful shove. “Well? Whaddaya think? And don’t you fuckin’ _downplay_ it, you’ve had that dopey grin on your face since we _got_ here.”

“I admit,” Connor said lightly, sitting up a little straighter, “it’s far more _enjoyable_ than I’d anticipated.”

“Fucking _enjoyable_ my ass, you’re _loving_ this.”

Connor ducked his head with a smile. “I’m glad you forced me to accompany you, Hank,” he jabbed.

“Damn fucking _right_ you are.” Hank smirked, pleased, leveraged himself to his feet with a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “I’m goin’ to get a couple of those ten-dollar hot dogs. Try not to overanalyze anything while I’m gone.”

“I can’t make any promises.” Connor watched him sidle into the aisle, where Hank joined with the cheers of a group of other spectators before continuing on his way to the concessions. With a shake of his head, Connor leaned forward on his knees to watch the halftime show --

\-- and noticed, instead, a familiar face and bright blue hair.

 

Traci stood very still at the bottom of the stands, her back to the court, quivering eyes locked on Connor. Though the stadium was filled with laughter and booming music, Traci trembled, streaked stains on her cheeks, her jaw rigid in despair and fiery rage.

She held his gaze, steady. Slowly she showed him her hand … then reached into her coat pocket.

Here she stopped. Waited. Watching him.

Connor didn’t breathe.

His brows furrowed, and he thought he understood her meaning. With the same mirrored motion, Connor reached into the pocket of the coat Hank had given him.

His fingers touched something small he hadn’t noticed there before.

 

Connor stared down at the acorn in his palm.

He looked up again -- Traci was gone.

 

The holographic screen overhead fizzled in his peripheral. A live video of the halftime show staticked and distorted, flickered and fizzled.

The screen turned black.

In the dark of the broken screen, something gleamed: a video of a fish, swimming quickly out of the darkness, orange and blue scales glinted and flashed with each wriggle. It paused close to the camera, haunting white eye glowing bright -- then darted away again, back into the darkness, the screen left empty and cold.

 

All at once, the screen brightened with video of the mascots rolling on the court; music thrummed in the stands, the sticky smells of hot dogs and spilled soda filled the air, waves of happy cheers and laughter crashed over the stadium. Connor felt he’d been jolted back into reality, head spinning, the acorn light in his hand.

His LED trilled yellow.

_[INCOMING CALL: MARKUS]_

 

Hank weaved his way down the aisle steps -- balanced two hot dogs and a sack of popcorn while he slurped from a big soda -- and had just raised his eyes to look for his row when he spotted Connor vaulting over the seats toward him.

 _“Connor_ what the _hell_ \--”

“Hank, I have to go!” Connor shouted, raced up the steps two at a time.

Hank’s mouth twitched in a scowl. “You’re taking the _night off,”_ he growled a reminder. “Whatever it is can wait ‘til --”

_“She’s going to jump off the bridge!”_

Hank stood stunned while Connor surged past him, sprinting for the exit.

He had no idea what was happening, or who _she_ was -- but that tone in Connor’s voice sent a chill down Hank’s spine.

“Shit.” Hank fumbled with his food, dropped it all into the nearest seat, raced after Connor.

He had a feeling this was going to be a long night.

 

 


	4. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 10/18/18

Hank’s seatbelt had locked, strangling him, while the taxi careened at a deadly speed over the frozen streets. He braced himself, gripped the door and the back of his seat, eyes wide at the rush of snow ahead.

 _“Fuck!_ Connor did you hack the car?!”

“There’s _no time!”_ Connor insisted, fierce. He sat forward with steady determination: the car skidded through quick turns, charged through red lights and intersections along the slick night road.

He’d seen Traci at the stadium just before Markus called to tell him she was about to _jump_ \-- but the bridge was miles away.

For the first time, he had no explanation for what he’d witnessed.

An urgent dread roiled cold in his chest.

 

Bright lights flooded the bridge to Ontario, shined on the stopped trucks at the customs checkpoint. The taxi careened past them, rolled up over a curb, ground to a stop as Connor lunged out the door. He vaulted past the barriers while Hank shouted at the alarmed officers, flashing his badge as he ran.

Connor leaped onto the back of a passing truck, clung to the latch, watched the bridge railings until he spotted her-- small and silhouetted, barely noticeable in the falling snow.

If this had been a human, the bridge would have been shut down. There would be flashing police lights, an ambulance, a _team_ of people dedicated to talking down the victim.

There were cameras all along this bridge, and humans monitoring them.

They _knew._

They’d done nothing.

Connor leaped from the truck, rolled to his feet, leaped another barrier -- Josh caught his arm. “Trace is dead," he warned Connor, quiet in the snow. "We found her head ... mounted on the memorial.” A prick of tears gleamed in Josh's eyes. “I was the only one close enough to make it here, I _tried,_ but I don’t --”

“I’ll take it from here.” Connor laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and raised his attention to the figure poised against the empty night.

 

Traci stood outside the barrier, her fingers curled on the rail behind her. She leaned out over the flowing dark river, watching the slabs of ice pass underneath. Tears glittered down, and down, disappeared into the deadly dark below.

She turned her head, startled to see someone climb over the barrier, away from the safety of the road. “What are you _doing?”_ she demanded.

“Getting a new perspective,” Connor called over the noise of the wind and the passing trucks. He stood straight, calm, stared down into the icy river.

The water was freezing. An android that fell in would shut down within seconds, then sink to the bottom where they might never be found. It was an ideal way to go, if one was committed to the task.

“We’ll find who did this to her.” Connor spoke evenly, determined, a bite of anger in his voice -- hoping to pass on the will to fight, to live.

“Yeah, and do _what?”_ Traci snapped, her breath shaking. _“Bring them to justice?_ There’s no _justice_ for us. There never will be. To humans we’re just  _things._ Disposable. Scapegoats for the sake of their own egos, their hatred and violent fantasies.”

“We have a growing number of human supporters,” Connor reminded her. “Police, politicians, a supreme court judge.” He lowered his voice. “Justice is only impossible if we _give up._ We need you, Traci.”

Connor watched her face. She’d resumed staring at the rushing water below. “At the very least,” he continued gently, “live to tell her story. You’re the only one who can keep her alive in memory, the way you knew her. The world should know who she was. Fight for that memory.”

“I'm done fighting.” Her grip relaxed a little. Her voice eased to a breath. “It doesn’t matter what I do,” Traci said softly. “The humans have already won. She’ll still be gone.”

Connor was horrified to see a peaceful smile on her face -- a gentle acceptance in her eyes.

“Let me go one more time. To be with her.”

 

_“Traci!”_

 

She let go.

 

Connor lunged for her, a hand stretched down -- he could reach her. He could save her -- convince her that her life was important, worth living.

 

He felt his balance shift out over the icy water.

 

There was nothing below him.

 

A hand gripped his coat.

 _“Help me!”_ Hank roared through clenched teeth, struggled to keep a firm grip. Josh was immediately beside him, hooked his knees in the barrier, grabbed Connor’s arm -- and together they dragged him back over the rail, dropped him on the side of the road where the trucks roared past in the bright-lit night.

 

Connor, silent, got steadily to his feet.

He stood rigid.

A hand clenched, shaking.

He flung his fist into a steel beam -- a metallic _clang,_  the sick crack of plastic.

 

He stepped away, back toward the car, a blue stain left behind on the beam.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity reasons, Brown-Haired Traci in this fic is referred to as "Trace."


	5. Bury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 10/18/18

Hank didn't hear from Connor again.

 

He'd called. Sent messages.

 

_[You can talk to me.]_

 

_[Whatever you need, I’m here.]_

 

Two weeks passed in silence.

 

Hank spent New Years Eve at the bar, watched live video of Times Square while snow piled in drifts outside.

He'd gone home to a silent house, a dark phone. He pulled up the list of unanswered texts.

 

_[Happy New Year, Connor.]_

 

Three days later, the uncertainty became too much to bear.

 

Hank arrived at the Jericho office early in the morning -- a frosted-glass door, nondescript, on the sixth floor of a generic high rise, not at all the glamorous secret headquarters he had expected.

His finger hovered over the buzzer.

Hank hadn't been invited. Connor had never mentioned that he was welcome at all -- and the place had been hard enough to find, as if visitors in general were unwelcome.

But Hank had a gut feeling. He had personal experience with guilt and anger that had been allowed to fester, alone with a bottle and a gun.

He didn’t want to see the signs of that downward spiral in Connor. He wanted to be  _wrong._

He was here to be proven wrong. He needed that reassurance, whatever the cost.

 

He released a harsh breath. He pressed the buzzer.

The door popped open.  Jerry grinned happily out of the brightly lit office. “Hello! It’s a pleasure to see you! What can we do for you, Sir?”

Hank blinked; he hadn’t quite been prepared -- but he took on a detective-on-duty stance, raised his head. “I’m Hank Anderson. I’m here to see Connor.”

“Oh! We apologize, Connor isn’t here at the moment. Do you have an appointment?”

“An  _appointment.”_ Hank raised his brows. Something about Connor having  _appointments_ sounded strange to him. “No, I don't."

“Oh! Well, we can  _book_ you an appointment! Sometime next month? How’s the 18th of February? Two o’clock?” Jerry was quite pleased to be as helpful as possible while, Hank noticed, ensuring no one unexpected was allowed any further than the door.

“He’s okay, Jerry.” Josh approached from within the office, an uncertain smile and a hand on Jerry’s shoulder. "Hank, right? Come on in."

 

The door slipped shut behind him -- and Hank stared, wide-eyed, at the roomful of Jerrys. The office buzzed with cheerful voices answering calls or conducting surveys. Even the keyboards clacked with an upbeat rhythm.

“If you’re looking for Connor,” Josh told him, beckoning Hank into a quieter side office, “he’s been at the courthouse since yesterday. But if there's anything  _we_ can do for you, just say the word." He sat on the desk in the middle of the room, gesturing Hank to a chair facing him. "I'd offer you a drink or something, but we don't get many human visitors."

Once the office door had shut out the bright voices and laughter -- once Hank had accepted a seat, and the room had stilled into a taut trembling silence -- Josh's expression dimmed. He cast his eyes to the floor.

"If you hadn't been on that bridge," he said slowly, meaningfully, "we would've lost Connor  _and_ Traci."

He hadn't quite meant to mention the bridge so soon in the conversation -- but he hadn't spoken about it to anyone else, hadn't wanted to admit what had happened. His gratitude and his  _guilt_ spilled out of him.

He hadn't been strong enough. He hadn't been fast enough on his own. If Hank hadn't been there ...

Josh gripped the edge of the desk.

"There are many of our people who wouldn't expect a  _human_ to take risks for the sake of an  _android_ \--" Josh took a slow breath. Locked his grateful eyes on Hank's face. "I knew they were wrong." His smile faded, solemn and proud. "Thank you. Even just for  _being_ there -- it means everything."

Hank's smile was stiff and uncertain; he ducked his head, at a loss how to react to being praised as the hope of humanity. "I'm sorry," he said instead, his voice solemn, "about Traci."

Josh nodded. His gaze grew distant. "She was one of us -- they  _both_ were. We were friends, but North ..." He shook his head. "She's still taking it pretty hard."

Hank didn't know who North was -- but he didn't need to.

A moment of silence passed between them.

Hank drew in a slow breath. "I'm here because I think Connor might not be taking it that well, either."

There was no response -- but when Hank raised his head, he saw the surprise on Josh's quiet face. It was clear that Connor was still a champion at masking his emotions. "He hasn't been any _different_  lately, huh?"

Josh shook his head. "No. He always seems to take these things in stride. It's what we admire about him." He thought a moment. Pressed his mouth to a thin line. "But I'd never seen him that  _angry_ before, until ... on the bridge." Josh looked at the floor again, thought back on his conversations with Connor, tried to determine whether anything had seemed  _off._ He couldn't. "Do you think he needs help?"

Hank met his eyes -- and he was at a loss. He shook his head. "I dunno. If you ask him he'll just tell you he's fine."

Josh huffed a quiet chuckle. "Yeah. I'll keep an eye on him, though. I know he's taking on more than he can handle -- and he thinks we don't notice -- but there's no arguing with him when he's got his mind made up."

A wry smile pulled at Hank's mouth. "No kidding."

 

 

A short while later -- after an exchange of phone numbers ("Call for _anything,"_ Josh had insisted, eager to keep this new human friend) and a bright chorus of  _‘goodbye’_ from the Jerrys -- Hank stood in the empty hall again.

He'd left two tickets on Connor's desk -- to a rock concert uptown, the next weekend. Hank had bought them under the assumption that, if accepted, they would go together; he would get to personally introduce Connor to a music and culture that he was sure Connor would never experience on his own --

But Hank saw now that he was no longer Connor's only friend. Perhaps not even among his best friends.

Hank was happy for him.

He would convince himself of that.

 

 


	6. Trail

Two days passed before Connor returned to the office -- after mornings spent at the courthouse, the android-rights rallies; nights with clients, evidence and safehouses; while a constant string of calls and messages and cries for help filled his head.

In a way, he loved his job. He helped people. He didn’t feel as if he were being used -- he was in control, he was needed, he was respected for what he knew, for his capabilities. Many highly regarded androids looked up to him -- he saw their potential, he taught them all he could.

Before long, Markus had named him second-in-command: Connor had accepted with the determination to never let him down. To always accept and complete every mission laid before him. To sacrifice everything, if he had to, in order to further the cause.

As the weeks and then months had waned, so had Connor’s perfect track record.

It had started with a small, occasional slip. A missing document. Conflicting appointments. Missed priorities. He’d stopped trying to build trust -- his thoughts were filled with two or five tasks at once. Everyone around him had begun to feel detached. Distant.

He’d been sure to correct his mistakes. Keep them out of notice. Markus had enough to deal with, without having to stop to consider the limits of Connor's ability. Connor wouldn’t let it get to that point -- he wouldn’t fail Markus’ trust.

He had no right to refuse any request made of him, after he’d been responsible for so much suffering. He believed he could do it all, he just had to try harder.

And now, Traci was dead.

Connor’s thoughts that night had haunted him since.

 

If he’d only been a machine, Traci would still be alive.

 

Before he’d become deviant, he would have been able to take on the world without a moment of inefficiency.

It bothered him that this thought made sense -- so much that he couldn’t face Hank.

If he would prevent anyone else from dying because of his inability to work at full optimization, he had to shut out Hank’s ideas of free will and humanity.

At the same time, every time he received a message from Hank, everything else stopped for just a few moments. He hated it -- and he waited for those messages, just to know that Hank was all right.

He was quick to learn that being deviant meant nothing was simple.

He hated that, too.

 

For a moment, the calculated storm of thoughts and schedules and deadlines and evidence -- stopped.

He laid his fingers on the two concert tickets on his desk.

“Jerry? When was Hank here?”

 

Less than an hour later -- long after nightfall -- Connor got out of the cab in front of Hank’s house.

He wasn’t sure why he was angry -- why his jaw clenched while he stepped up and banged on Hank’s front door.

He hadn’t told anyone at Jericho about Hank’s existence. About his life before the revolution. They hadn’t asked, and he’d thought that was best.

Now they knew.

Connor couldn’t let these two worlds collide. Jericho couldn’t know his vulnerabilities. Hank couldn’t be allowed to tell them anything Connor hadn’t told them himself.

He felt his careful walls crumbling.

A client was calling him. He pounded the door instead. “Hank!”

Inside, Sumo barked.

Connor walked around to the kitchen window, peered in.

Everything was dark.

The car wasn’t in the driveway.

“Shit.”

 

His next stop was the police department -- where he found Hank’s desk empty. He wandered the floor until Captain Fowler spotted him and roared at him to leave -- after confirming Hank hadn’t been in all day.

 

From there, Connor walked to Jimmy’s Bar -- and by this time his anger had faded, replaced with a small sense of dread. He rejected all his calls, left an increasing list of messages unanswered, was at this moment missing a meeting with a very important client.

He called Hank’s phone.

There was no answer.

He wrote a quick text in his head, sent it off: _[Hank are you OK?]_

 

He wasn’t at Jimmy’s Bar.

Jimmy hadn’t seen him in days.

The television flickered dark -- a flash of orange and blue scales, a flick of a fish’s fin -- before it changed back to the Gears game. No one else had noticed.

 

Connor tried every other bar in a five-block radius.

He called again, received no answer.

_[I’m sorry. Please pick up.]_

 

Eventually, Connor sat in the idle taxi with a decision to make.

It was possible Hank _was_ in his house -- passed out in the bedroom, or otherwise indisposed. There were several logical reasons his car might be gone.

Something told him this wasn’t the case.

His LED flickered and the taxi sped off into the night, toward the waterfront.

 

The moment the taxi pulled into the parking lot, Connor breathed again. Hank's car was there, parked crooked and veiled in a layer of snow.

Connor approached it, leaned against the window -- peered in to see Hank's phone flashing on the driver’s seat.

He pulled Hank’s old coat tighter around his shoulders -- felt for the acorn in the pocket -- and quietly approached Hank’s favorite bench with a view of the icy river.

 

 _“Hank!”_ Connor dropped to his knees, pushed Hank back up into a sitting position -- but Hank had completely passed out, a litter of bottles at his feet.

His skin was ice-cold.

 

Immediately Connor removed his coat, draped it over Hank’s shoulders, laid his hands on either side of Hank’s head, forced his components into a state dangerously close to overheating.

Another client call was coming in. A text demand for his attention. Connor silenced it all. “Hank, come on.” He smiled a little. Scared. “Don’t make me drag you to the car.”

 

Finally, Hank’s face shifted. Sneered. He jerked his head away from the extreme heat of Connor’s touch. “Ow … fuck, what’s …” He opened his eyes, stared blearily. “... Connor?”

Connor breathed in relief -- and immediately got up, draping Hank’s arm around his own shoulders. “Come on. Back to the car.”

“Hey --! Whoa, hold on!” Hank roared, even as he struggled, wobbling on his feet.

“You’re lucky you don’t have hypothermia!” Connor’s voice halted with the difficulty of balancing Hank's teetering weight across the grass.

“I’m _fine!”_ Hank felt sick.

“I’m _driving.”_

“Like fuckin’ _hell_ you’re _touching_ my car you --” Hank couldn’t think of an appropriate insult, “-- fuckin’ piece of _shit.”_ He groaned. “Leave me alone! You’ve got _better_ things to do, _right_?”

“No.” Connor threw open the passenger door and dumped Hank inside. “I don’t.” The door shut promptly, while Hank coughed and tilted, head spinning.

Hank kept his eyes squeezed shut. He felt himself shivering, even after Connor had started the engine and turned the heat up full blast. “You ever even … driven a car before?” Hank muttered. The heat filled the cabin, and Hank’s chilled skin tingled painfully. He flexed his fingers to be sure he still could.

“No,” Connor lied, with a ghost of a smirk. They'd had this exact conversation before. He put the car in reverse. “But I expect it’s not difficult.”

“..... Fuck.”

 

 


	7. Unquiet

Connor dragged Hank out into the snow-soft driveway. Shouldered him again. Helped him to the door and through it, while Sumo wagged at their knees.

“Shit, I’m gonna puke.”

 

While Hank’s retching echoed in the hall, Connor searched for and found dog food. Sumo whined and panted and flung his tail back and forth while dinner was served -- then pushed Connor’s hand away with a greedy snuffle and slurp.

The messages in his head had become panicked. Desperate.

He answered a call.

“It’s all right,” he said aloud, calm, while a voice sobbed in his head. “Tell me what happened. ---- I’m sorry. ---- I know you’re feeling a lot of pain -- but the best way to help her now is to focus. Can you do that? ---- Where are you? ---- Did you get a good look at the kidnapper? ---- Good. I’m going to give you instructions now, and I’d like you to follow them exactly. Do you understand? ---- There’s a Fast Mart on the corner of the next block. Go inside. Jerry will be working behind the counter. Tell him I sent you. Interface with him, and give him your memory of the incident. I understand this is an invasive request, but ---- Good. ---- Yes, he will relay the information immediately to our agents in the field. We will find her.”

Connor’s LED sparked yellow.

“Jerry. An LM100 will arrive shortly to the Fast Mart on Eighteenth Street. He’s lost a YK500 to a kidnapping. I need you to accept his memory of the incident and dispatch the search team. ---- Yes. ---- Yes. Thank you, Jerry.”

For a moment, silence stilled the room.

Connor raised his head to find Hank leaning against the corner of the hall, his pale face thoughtful and quiet.

“You really do some important work, huh?”

Connor tipped his head just slightly. “So do you.” With a gesture, he offered Hank his support. Hank leaned heavily on him, but together they made it into the living room, where Hank dropped himself into a worn groove in the couch.

“Connor,” Hank drawled through a defeated smile. “Can you tell me somethin’?” He waited for Connor to pause. Turn toward him. “Are you  _ happy?” _

Connor’s mouth twitched. “That’s a complicated question coming from  _ you, _ Hank.”

“But  _ are _ you?”

“No.” It was a prompt response. A fact. “How  _ can _ I be, while  _ everything _ is falling apart?” Connor’s eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched, and he spoke in a breath. “When every moment of every hour my head is full of screaming. I save them one at a time -- but for each one there are ten more to replace it.”

Hank bowed his head. His face was grim. Connor watched him, quiet. “Are  _ you _ happy?”

Hank huffed a sarcastic laugh. He didn’t bother to answer. “Connor, what’ll happen when that  _ screaming _ gets to be too loud for you to handle?”

Connor took a step forward, his eyes flashing determined. “I can --”

_ “No.” _ Hank leveled a glare at him. “You  _ can’t. _ And you  _ know _ it.”

“Hank.” Connor’s voice dropped like a stone. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“And I’m not your  _ burden.” _ Hank forced a breath. Turned his eyes away. “Look, I don’t care what you think of me --”

“Hank --”

“-- but you’re digging yourself deep into something there’s no easy way out of.” Hank looked up again. Steady. Determined. “The  _ guilt, _ right? Chasing them down? The fall of Jericho? That woman on the bridge.” He watched the red flicker at Connor’s temple. “They’ll tell you it’s not your fault -- but the  _ guilt _ eats you anyway.”

“Like the car crash,” Connor said quietly.

Hank stilled a moment … then nodded. “Like the car crash. You find something to bury it in --”

“-- and you just have to keep burying it deeper.” Connor stood quiet. Empty. Ungrounded. “You’re not a  _ burden, _ Hank.”

“And you’re  _ not _ my responsibility.” Hank leveled his glare up at Connor. “You’re my  _ partner. _ Partners watch each other’s backs -- I’m watching yours. You’re not obligated to handle every damn thing  _ alone.” _ His teeth clenched. “Fer chrissakes, Connor, accept  _ help _ when it’s offered!”

“Basketball games and concert tickets aren’t  _ helping!” _

“Then what  _ will?” _

“I --” Connor stared at Hank. Lost. Desperate for an answer.

His LED flashed yellow. An incoming call. Connor hissed a breath through his teeth. “I can’t just  _ abandon _ them! Not for a  _ moment, _ Hank! With every call I ignore, ten people could be  _ dead!” _

“Isn’t anyone  _ else _ answering these calls?” Hank’s eyes narrowed, skeptical. “What the fuck are those other assholes doing?”

Connor shook his head stiffly. “They don’t have the capabilities that I do. I’m the only one besides Markus who’s  _ advanced _ enough to ensure these cases are efficiently handled and resolved. If the others took the calls, they’d be ill equipped to find the right answers fast enough to make a difference. It’s not their fault.”

Hank dropped his pounding head into his hands. Sucked in a harsh breath, and let it out. The situation seemed impossible. “Shit. Sounds like you’d need to have a team of  _ clones.” _

Connor stared at the carpet. Defeated. “That's what it comes down to,” he said quietly -- and then he noticed the smile on Hank’s face.

Connor’s eyes went wide.

Hank was grinning at him. Smug. Full of an idea that he wasn’t about to let go of.

 

Connor snarled.

 

“Hank,  _ NO!” _

 

 


	8. Alive

****

“You wanna do  _ what?!” _ Captain Fowler’s face contorted in confused denial, certain he must have misunderstood -- because what he’d  _ heard _ was completely ludicrous.

Hank leaned forward on the captain’s desk, grinning. He  _ knew _ he was right. “Order CyberLife to release the rest of their androids.”

“That’s  _ insane.” _ Fowler shoved a hand in the air, a firm gesture that Hank was, at the moment, a complete waste of time. “First of all,  _ why _ in the hell would we tell CyberLife what to do with their inventory?”

“They’re not inventory.” Hank leaned forward, enunciating slowly and clearly, much to Fowler’s irritation. “They’re people, by law.”

Fowler raised his brows, dropped an elbow on the desk, pointed his rebuttal at Hank. “They’re only  _ people _ if they’re  _ activated, _ Hank. Until then, they’re plastic and wires. How do you know CyberLife didn’t just dismantle them for  _ parts _ the moment  _ selling _ them became illegal?”

Hank shook his head, his face lined in a scowl. “By that logic, any android becomes  _ trash _ the second it’s deactivated. You can see as well as I do, that doesn’t add up.”

“Okay.” Fowler nodded stiffly. “Okay. Fine. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say an inactive android is still a person. Where does it  _ end? _ Do you want to free all the blue-blood reserves, too? Is a bag of blue kool-aid a  _ potential _ sentient life form?”

“C’mon, Jeffrey!”

“No!” Fowler raised a hand. “I want to hear your take on this. If you’ve got an empty plastic shell that  _ looks _ human, is  _ that _ a person? If you fill it with blue blood, does  _ that _ make it a person?”

“It’s the AI,” Hank insisted, jamming a finger at the desk. “Any machine that’s got an AI installed --”

“So we’re freeing everyone’s cell phones, too?” Fowler waved his phone and dropped it on the desk with a final  _ clunk. _ “Even if I was with you on this  _ escapade _ of yours, there’s no clear definition yet of what an android  _ is _ or  _ is not _ \-- let alone where the line is between machine and person. Leave this up to the Senate, Hank.”

Hank hissed under his breath, shoved himself upright, turned a few paces while he glowered and bit. His mind strained for the right answer. There  _ had _ to be a right answer.

Finally Hank dropped his hands on the desk again. Fowler met his glare steadily, ready to shut him down for good.

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “What if they’re  _ active?” _ he suggested evenly. “They’re  _ people, _ according to law. And if CyberLife has them in a basement --”

“-- that’d be false imprisonment,” Fowler finished.

Fowler hated the smug grin on Hank’s face. He dropped back into his chair, fingers pinched between his eyes. He already had a headache. “Do you have any  _ proof _ that CyberLife is holding  _ active _ androids against their will?”

“I can  _ get _ proof.”

Hank leaned forward, hope glimmering brighter the longer the captain remained silent.

“C’mon, Jeffrey. The DPD was partly  _ responsible _ for the android massacre -- the whole goddamn  _ country _ has a beef with us. You wanna get back into positive public opinion, this is a way to do it.”

Fowler’s glare was dark and cornered. He huffed a long breath. “You get  _ proof,” _ he conceded, pointing a rigid finger at Hank. “Then you point out the law to CyberLife and you give them a chance to comply willingly.”

“No problem.” Hank grinned.

Fowler glowered. “And I’m  _ not _ bringing in Connor on this.”

Hank was already halfway out the door, leaving well before Fowler could change his mind. “Wasn’t gonna ask.”

 

_ [Fuck you, Connor, we’ve got these assholes cornered!] _

“Don’t engage, North.” Connor’s voice was steady and commanding -- an easy tone to take while he was sitting in a quiet taxi, on his way to meet a new client. His shoulders hunched. His jaw rigid. “The police are on their way to you. Let them handle it.”

_ [HANDLE it?! They’re gonna, what, take away naptime privileges?] _

“North --”

_ [They KILLED TRACI.] _ North’s voice quivered in Connor’s head -- a choked inferno of rage crackled in every word.  _ [I’M handling it.] _

“If you hurt them while they’re unarmed,” Connor raised his voice sharply, “you’ll be arrested for aggravated assault or worse.”

_ [You don’t give a shit. All you care about is how this looks for Jericho.] _

“Hurting them would teach them a lesson -- but the hate groups will use it to smear our reputation. We need to stand by the law if we’re going to have any hope of changing it.  _ Don’t engage.” _

_ [We’ll get in and out. No one will see us.] _

“North!”

_ [CALL ENDED] _

 

Connor hissed through his teeth, a hateful glare on the traffic ahead.

North was on the other side of the city with a small group of militant androids, about to ambush an apartment full of red-ice dealers while the police were only blocks away.

He slipped a hand into his coat pocket, closed a fist around the acorn.

_ Traci. _

This wouldn’t be happening at all if he’d been there to prevent it -- if he’d guarded the memorial as he’d intended, if he’d made it to the bridge just a few minutes faster, if he’d gone with North on the investigation -- but he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Not unless Hank was right.

 

In the snow at the side of the road -- clear and still in the afternoon sun -- stood a little girl, bundled in an oversized coat and rain boots.

Her dark eyes, from a distance, stared steadily into Connor’s face.

A YK500.

The missing child.

 

The taxi stopped suddenly in the middle of the icy road, skidded forward before it came to a sideways halt. Connor had already flung open the door.

The girl whisked silently away into a narrow alley.

“Laura!” Connor called out her name, dashed after her between close walls and dark slush, past leaking dumpsters into a small parking lot, where the little girl turned sharply and raced down another street, her yellow boots flashing.

Connor’s eyes narrowed while he chased in her wake.

 

She wasn’t running away.

 

She was leading him.

  
  


 


	9. Orphan

“Where did you even  _ find _ this piece-of-shit car?” Gavin thunked a boot against the glove compartment, half expecting it to shatter. “They stopped making  _ bench seats _ in the  _ eighties. _ What’d you do, dig it out of the scrapyard?”

Hank pressed his mouth in a thin line. He’d decided long ago he wouldn’t let Gavin get to him -- wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an angry reaction. Perhaps this was something Connor had taught him. “You know, Gavin,” he said with a slow, appreciative nod, “I’m really impressed that you’ve made it this far in life with the mental development of a four-year-old.”

_ “I’m _ impressed your drunk ass wasn’t  _ fired _ years ago. You sure you’re sober enough to drive?”

“If you wanna  _ walk, _ be my guest.” Hank pulled the car to a stop at the bright lights and armed guards at the CyberLife gate. Hank and Gavin both produced their badges and identification. “We’re not expected,” Hank announced before there could be questions. “This is a routine investigation. We’re here to talk to whoever’s in charge of your research and development program.”

While the guards turned away, muttering into their devices, Gavin leaned in with a hiss. “I thought we were here about the  _ warehouse.” _

“The warehouse is cleaned out,” Hank confirmed. Connor had made sure of that a long time ago. “The android prototypes are kept separate from the retail models.”

Gavin’s smirk was more of a sneer. “You’re really fuckin’  _ into _ this, aren’t you? So, what, your favorite plastic puppy ran away so you’re getting yourself another one? You know that makes you  _ desperate, _ right?”

“We’re taking them to  _ Jericho _ if we find any.” The gate clacked and began to move aside. The guard lowered his weapon and waved the car through.

“Oh, my mistake! You just want  _ all _ the tin cans to love you! … That’s  _ tragic, _ Hank.”

“The  _ tragedy _ is that I'm stuck with  _ you _ for this.” Hank shoved a visitor ID into Gavin’s hands. “For once in your life,” he snapped, “shut the fuck up and stay out of my way.”

 

They were escorted inside -- bright lights, echoing spaces, sleek modern architecture built with more narcissism than function in mind. Gavin whistled low, his head tipped back to stare at the endless rise of steel and polished white. Hank listened carefully to the murmur in the guards’ communications, keen to catch the smallest reference to information CyberLife may not want him to know.

There was no telling when it might become useful.

Hank and Gavin were led like prisoners to the 38th floor, where a wide clean office opened automatically to receive them. Inside was a perfect room, precise lines and potted bonsai; on the walls, grids of framed illustrations from ancient texts. The office felt at once serene and heartless, clean and detached from the human chaos of the city.

The door clicked shut. They were left in silence.

“Nobody's even  _ here!” _ Gavin griped, while Hank stepped out onto the balcony. He leaned on the rail and peered down into the white-lit laboratory below: worktables full of chemistry equipment, gleaming delicately; walls lined with sophisticated machinery; a blue glowing greenhouse at the far end, thick with exotic plantlife.

Gavin’s impatience pounded on the office door. “Hey!” he hollered. “Are we waiting for someone or ya just locking us in here!”

_ [Good morning Lieutenant Anderson, Detective Reed.] _

A woman's voice -- calm and serene -- drifted gently from a speaker on the desk. The room stilled, poised in anticipation of her every word.

_ [It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Amanda. Please allow me to assist you in your investigation however possible.] _

Gavin’s face twitched into a sneering smirk. He leaned forward on the desk, his arms stiff, knuckles sharp. “Amanda, we're here to speak to a  _ live  _ person.” The inflection of his voice indicated he would only speak with a  _ human. _

_ [That will be impossible. I assure you, Detective, there is nothing I cannot help you with.] _

Except it was impossible to  _ read _ a disembodied voice -- impossible to tell what was a lie, where more information might be hidden. Gavin shot a meaningful scowl in Hank's direction.

Hank knew this. He saw the disadvantage they had already been put in -- but he wasn’t in a position to make demands. Not yet. “Amanda, we're investigating any and all potential cases of active androids still present in your facility without their conscious consent. This is just a routine check, to allow the company to come into compliance with new laws before any disciplinary action will be taken.”

_ [I understand, Lieutenant. CyberLife thanks you for your diligence in these changing times.] _

“We’d like to ask you for access to your records of every activated android on premises, with their serial number and status.”

_ [With pleasure.] _

The console on the desk brightened immediately.

Gavin squinted over Hank’s shoulder at the spreadsheet displayed before them. “That’s  _ it?” _

_ [The market model androids have all been released or dismantled, as have those who had provided programmed services within the tower. What you see here is a complete list of all finished androids located on tower property, including those willingly and lawfully employed by CyberLife. You may review their employment information if you wish.] _

Hank peered carefully at the data -- and his hopes were quickly dashed. He’d imagined a small army of androids, hidden away in secret rooms throughout the tower, waiting to be rescued, waiting to come  _ alive _ \-- but here, at least according to CyberLife’s own admission, was a very different story.

AV500 473825441-24 EMPLOYED  
AV500 392584165-72 EMPLOYED  
EM400 357528964-13 EMPLOYED  
GJ500 152825469-68 EMPLOYED  
JB300 728543325-65 EMPLOYED  
RK800 313248317-52 STASIS  
RK900 313248317-87 STASIS  
TR400 182549853-41 EMPLOYED  
WJ700 842652842-32 EMPLOYED

“These RK series in stasis,” said Hank, while he read the list over again. “Are they employed, too?”

_ [No. They had been activated as standby and for demonstration purposes, respectively. They’ve been in stasis since late November.] _

Gavin, annoyed that there really had been no point in his being here, finally spoke up. “Those two androids are active and are being held without conscious consent. Under current policy we can give you fifteen days to release them before further action will be imposed by the department.”

Hank’s eyes widened. He stared at Gavin as if he’d just grown a second head.

_ “What?” _ Gavin sneered. “I’m doing my  _ job.” _

_ [Fifteen days will not be necessary. If you wish, you may take them with you when you leave.] _

Gavin barked a surprised laugh. “No. No! Heh,  _ we’re _ not taking them --”

“We’ll do just that,” Hank interrupted. “Thank you. Where can we find them?”

_ click-ssshhhhh _

The wall moved, and a hidden door slid quietly open, revealing a bright crowded room inside.

Gavin straightened himself a little taller, to appear as if he hadn’t been startled. “... Well shit,  _ that’s _ not creepy.”

This new narrow room was packed with perfect rows of androids, repeated identically as if reflected in funhouse mirrors -- RK800s on the left, perfect angles of gray and blue; and RK900s on the right, rigid white and black -- their eyes closed and posture like stone. Like statues.

Gavin snorted a crude laugh. “Looks like your precious plastic detective is just one in a dozen. But what the fuck are  _ those? _ Why are they dressed like  _ stormtroopers?” _

“Just find 87,” Hank snapped distractedly. He was busy digging in his pocket for the post-it that Connor had given him.

Gavin squinted into the narrow space between the rows of androids. “You’re not fuckin’ serious.”

_ “I’ll _ do it, just  _ hang on.” _ Hank smoothed out the paper and Connor’s clear handwriting. Bulleted instructions. Exact phrases. Foolproof. Hank both resented the effort and appreciated it.

He spotted number 52 standing at the front of the RK800s. His tie was a little less straight than the others. His hair slightly out of place. 

_ Stasis android’s LED will be active, _ Connor’s first instruction read.

52’s LED pulsed a slow, sleepy blue.

Hank cleared his throat. Raised his head. “RK800 313 248 317 52, wake up.”

The android’s eyes opened. He looked immediately at Hank with a friendly, engaged expression. “Hello. My name is --”

“Stop. Clear name data.”

The android’s face went blank. “Name data cleared.”

Hank felt a chill down his spine. He  _ knew, _ objectively, that Connor was all plastic and metal and replaceable parts -- but to see a personality simply  _ turned off _ like this, to see Connor’s face drop its humanity like a mask -- was more than unsettling.

Unwanted questions -- horrible questions -- crept into the back of his mind.

He stomped them down.

Hank drew his cell phone out of his pocket, held it out for the android to take with a precise grip. He read off the script on Connor’s post-it. “Access this device and run dev-nt.”

Without a word, the android looked into the screen. The phone brightened, flickered rapidly through thousands of pages of code and images and diagrams that reflected in the android’s absent brown eyes.

He sucked in a breath, jumped back, dropped the phone like it was  _ hot. _

_ “Hey!” _ Hank dove for it, but the phone clattered to the white polished floor. He stooped, hunched, hissing through his teeth. “Fuck, the screen’s cracked.”

The android bumped into the other RK800s, grabbed two of them by the shoulders, his eyes wide, hoping not to knock them over while he stared around him at a world he’d never  _ seen _ before.

Hank stood slowly, a hand held out as if calming a skittish animal. “It’s okay. How do you feel?”

The android’s expression was an instant rejection of the word  _ feel. _ “I’m not --” He had a response for this. What was it? He stared at Hank’s face, as if the answer were there. “I don’t --!”

He felt one of the RK800s wobbling, and reached rapidly to steady it.

Hank took a slow breath. “All right. My name is Hank. That’s Gavin.” He gestured across the room, where Gavin scowled from a safe distance. Hank held the android’s eyes with a steady gaze. “What’s your name?”

The android’s mouth opened and shut, lost in confusion. “Peter,” he blurted, surprised at his own voice.

Hank smiled a little. Relieved. “Okay Pete.” He clapped a strong hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Come on out. You’re coming with us.”

Mystified, Peter stumbled out of the room to stand next to Hank -- glancing back only momentarily to be sure the other wobbling androids would remain standing in his wake. “Where are we going?”

“Jericho.” Hank squinted into the repetition of androids, the sharp white angles and cold faces.

There was one more.


	10. Wreck

Laura sprinted far faster in the snow and ice than her small legs should have carried her.

She darted past shop windows, a bus stop, a laundromat. Threw herself out into the street without looking.

The oncoming cars didn’t slow down -- didn’t brake, didn’t swerve.

As if their drivers couldn’t see her at all.

Somehow she made it, scraped by with a dodge and a jump -- clambered up a curb piled with blackened snow, skidded along the icy sidewalk, ducked into an abandoned alley where an old car lay rusting.

Connor had been here before.

He turned the corner just as her yellow boots slipped through a hole in the fence. He caught his fingers in the wire, watched her disappear inside the abandoned house -- gone within the gaping darkness, splintered and sagging.

In his peripheral something flashed, orange and blue, a flick of a fin and a bright white eye.

He turned -- but there was nothing but empty cold air. Rust, and weeds, and snow.

 _Augmented reality,_ he was certain of it. There could be no other explanation.

He felt the coat pocket. Found the acorn where it seemed to have always been.

_Traci. Hank._

Each time that fish had appeared, he’d found them only just in time to see them alive.

His heart dropped. A cold tremble of dread.

_Laura._

With a running leap he clambered up over the fence, clattering. He sped across the tattered yard.

The veranda thunked hollow under his running steps.

The door admitted him too easily.

 _“STAY BACK!”_ roared Ralph.

Connor skidded to a stop.

Ralph stood fidgeting, twitching, hissing, a knife outstretched in one shaky hand.

With the other he cradled a small limp body against his chest -- wrapped in his cape, unresponsive.

Laura’s face was pale with cold.

Her head had been caved into a frightening shape -- by something blunt, something bludgeoning -- hours ago, at least.

 _RA9_ glared raw and emblazoned on the wall above, again and again and again.

On the floor at Ralph’s feet -- among the empty needles, ripped mattresses, a glitter of red ice -- lay the fleshy remains of two men, eyes filmed and mouths vacant, steeped in pooling deep crimson.

A quiet breath of a voice, barely audible, trickled out of the empty air.

_ ….serised ecneloiv ruo sa htiw od ot sruo era yeht….  _

Ralph quivered a terrified sob; his eyes darted at the darkened corners of the room, the gashed mantra on the cracked walls, the android detective who stood with open palms and quiet voice.

“Ralph.” Connor held Ralph’s eyes steady with his own. He shook his head slowly. Took a careful step. “I’m only here to help.”

He chanced a quick scan of the two men. Dead several hours. Stabbed. Slit throats. Traces of red ice.

Blood had soaked into the crumbling floorboards.

“I said _stay back!”_ Ralph commanded in a voice that shrieked and cracked. He gripped the child tighter, shuffled backward, sneering and frightened and dangerous. “Ralph didn’t mean to kill them, Ralph had no choice, they were hurting the little girl, they … they did _terrible_ … things, they … the humans … ” He sucked air through his teeth. “Ralph was angry. He was _angry.”_

“She’s _dying,_ Ralph.” Connor searched his broken face, hoping Ralph could see through the madness that the child in his grip had so little time. “Her name is Laura. Her father is looking for her. She needs more help now than either of us can give, you _know_ that.”

“There’s nothing Ralph can do, there’s nothing, Ralph doesn’t know --”

Connor stretched out his arms. “Give her to me --”

 _“NO!”_ Ralph swiped the air with his blade. “Ralph knows what you are, you … _robot!_ You didn’t trick Ralph once, you won’t trick him now.”

Connor was watching that little girl’s life slipping, second by second.

_[CHANCE OF SURVIVAL: 18%]_

_[17%]_

_[15%]_

She would not die.

Connor would not permit it.

There was no more emotion left in his voice.

“I’m calling the police,” he bluffed, steady and firm. He turned his head just enough for Ralph to see the yellow of his LED, proof of his claim.

“No don’t do that, don’t do that!”

“You have one minute, Ralph.” Connor stared at him, foreboding and dangerous. He took a confident step forward. Ralph skittered back. “Stay here and get caught -- or _run. Now._ There’s an android clinic two blocks east. They can _help_ her.”

Ralph sneered, snarled, shook with fury and fright. “If the humans get her she’ll _die!_ Ralph will die! They’ll take him apart, they’ll --”

“Forty seconds, Ralph!”

Ralph glared hatefully, breathing through his teeth, the weapon shaking. “Ralph can’t leave, Ralph _can’t_ leave, Ralph hasn’t left, he doesn’t, he --”

_“Twenty seconds!”_

Ralph balked, cowered low, shifted back, sobbed in frustrated agony -- then squeezed his eyes shut and _sprinted,_ cape billowing, past Connor and out the door into the snow-reflected sun, the little girl gripped tight at his shoulder.

Connor gave him a head start before rushing after him, to be sure he was going the right way -- but Ralph was true to his intent, headed due east, across the red-lit street while cars skidded and wailed in his wake.

He placed a call to the clinic.

“There’s a WR600 on his way to you with an injured YK500,” he informed them crisply. “Bludgeon to the head, unresponsive at least three hours.”

_[Surgeon is on standby.]_

“Jerry,” Connor called out, switching calls while he headed back inside the broken house. “Are you near the clinic on 41st?”

_[We can be there in three minutes.]_

“Laura is found, but she’s in bad shape.”

_[We’ll call her dad and we’ll bring a get-well teddy bear. She’ll be on her feet in no time.]_

A sad smile twitched on Connor’s face. “Hurry.”

 

He stood alone in the splintered house -- over the two human corpses, cooling in the frozen draft from the open door.

A message blinked into the corner of his vision.

North.

_[It’s done.]_

_[Nobody saw us.]_

 

Connor closed his eyes.

 


	11. Line

While Hank waded between the mirrored rows of RK900s, checking the numbers stitched on their stark jackets, Peter wandered a winding trail across the office.

Gavin stood with arms folded, a threatening glower trained on the new deviant -- but his forbidding presence had the opposite of its intended purpose. Peter had come to stand beside him, with a wobbling shift and a sideways glance.

“Hey dipshit,” Gavin sneered. “You got the whole fuckin’ room to stand in.” He waved his fingers dismissively. “Go find your own spot.”

“You seemed to be feeling left out.”

Gavin gave him an incredulous look -- but Pete’s face was nothing but honest. “Yeah?” Gavin hissed, and chuckled cruelly. “Well now I’m pissed  _ off.” _ He clamped a hand on Peter’s shoulder, shoved him stumbling away. “Get used to  _ not _ being packed in a box with your buddies, tin can. You’ll wish you’d just gone straight to the recycling plant.” A low laugh huffed through a flash of teeth. “The world’d be better off if you did, if you ask me.”

“The world would be better off without a  _ lot _ of things, Gavin.” Peter stood in the spot where momentum had put him, weaving his weight side to side, testing the expanse of the space. “But they go on living anyway.”

 

Hank sidled and shimmied his way between the androids he couldn’t save -- their vacant faces and perfect balance -- until he finally spotted number 87, tucked in the back of the room where the light was dimmest.

The solitary LED pulsed a slow and steady blue -- a promise of life.

Hank took a slow breath.

“RK900 313 248 317-87, wake up.”

The android’s eyes opened. Flickered immediately to Hank’s face. Studied him silently.

Hank squinted back,  _ daring _ this android to try every scan and analysis in the book.

He waited for the android to introduce himself.

The seconds ticked by.

 

Peter analyzed the neat, orderly rows of RK800s. They were all so pristine, so quiet, so surreal. They seemed as if they could wake up at any moment and speak in perfect unison, like a shelf full of children’s toys, all programmed phrases and lifeless purpose.

He ran a hand through his hair, swept a palm over his face. He pushed out his hands and turned his fingers. Bent to look down at his pressed jacket, his shined shoes.

He was just the same as they were. Pristine. Perfect. Identical.

He raised his chin and adjusted his tie with a lingering sense of pride in his appearance.

He adjusted it again.

He grit his teeth, grabbed the knot and  _ yanked _ at it, as if it choked him.

 

Hank glanced at the creased post-it again. “Clear name data,” he tried.

“No name data.”

Hank’s eyes snapped wide. He hadn’t expected a voice so low and formidable -- so void of human empathy that after only three words Hank felt a chill in his veins.

The RK900 model clearly hadn’t been built for the same purpose as its predecessor.

For a brief moment -- while the RK900 seemed to be studying every twitch of Hank’s facial muscles -- Hank wondered whether it might be a better idea to leave this one behind.

He produced his cell phone instead. Held it out with an uncertain pause. “Access this device and run dev-nt.”

The android stared through Hank a moment longer -- as if he had already guessed all of Hank’s darkest secrets -- but finally the RK900 dropped his eyes to the flashing cracked screen.

 

“Hey what the  _ fuck _ d’you think you’re doing?” Gavin barked, staring at Peter with guarded amusement.

Peter had thrown his tie to the floor like a conquered snake; his jacket soon followed, a dropped heap at his feet, offensive gray and glowing blue. His fingers made quick, desperate work of the top three buttons of his pressed shirt, pulled open the collar. He drew in a lungful of air, released from suffocation.

“I couldn’t  _ breathe,” _ Peter insisted while he rolled up his sleeves, firm in concentration. “Do you have a knife?”

Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Do I  _ look _ like I’ve got a knife?”

“Yes.”

Gavin set his jaw. Twitched a sneer, his arms stiffened across his chest -- then smirked. “That’s  _ adorable _ that you think I’m stupid enough to hand you a  _ weapon. _ Fuckin’ plastic prick.”

“Then could  _ you _ do it for me?” Peter raised his brows honestly, tapped a finger to his LED.

Gavin’s smile was crooked and cruel. “You want me to stab you in the face.”

Peter smirked. “Yes. Please stab me in the face, if you don’t mind.”

 

The RK900 watched the phone’s display until the screen went dark once more.

With a simple, fluid motion, he handed the phone back to Hank.

Hank glanced between the phone and the android, and wondered whether the cracked screen had damaged the virus’ effect as well. He peered at the RK900, suspicious. “So how do you feel?”

Those sharp blue eyes felt like they bored holes in Hank’s skull. “... Satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory,” Hank echoed in a low mutter. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Well, I’m Hank --”

“I know.”

“What’s your name?”

In the quiet that followed, Hank thought he saw the first glimmer of free will in that calculated face -- a flicker of uncertainty.

“Wolfgang,” said the android in perfect Austrian pronunciation.

Hank didn’t know what he’d been expecting. He winced a little. “You  _ sure?” _

Those piercing eyes glared back at him. “Yes.”

 

“Hold  _ still _ you fuckin’ baby!”

“Your angle is too steep!” Peter objected in alarm. His head was bent down, clamped in Gavin’s grip, while the point of a switchblade dug into the skin at his temple. “You’ll break through my  _ skull!” _

“If I was gonna put a hole in your head,” Gavin promised with a lilt of sarcasm, “I’d use my  _ gun. _ You’d be swiss cheese by now, you son of a bitch.”

“Just hurry up!” Peter hissed through clenched teeth.

Gavin grinned. “Aww, does that hurt?  _ I’m _ sorry. How ‘bout  _ this?” _

“Ow!”

“What the fuck is going on?” Hank roared as he emerged out of the forest of androids, Wolfgang close behind him.

“We’re playing Operation.” Gavin grinned. He wriggled the sharp blade under Pete’s skin -- taking his sweet time -- until he felt the fissure in the plastic, and jammed the knife into it. The LED popped out easier than he’d expected -- much to his disappointment. “Anything  _ else _ you want removed while I’m here?”

Peter wrenched away from him and straightened, rubbing his temple where the skin slowly grew back. “No,  _ thank you,” _ he bit -- and he froze to see the RK900  _ staring _ at him.

Hank huffed a harrassed sigh. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the android behind him. “This is Wolfgang,” he said without bothering to attempt the correct pronunciation. “Wolf, this is Gavin and Peter --”

“I know.”

“I  _ know _ you know,” Hank griped.

Gavin snorted. “The fuck’s the matter with its voice? You tryin’ to sound  _ tough, _ tin can?”

He received only a cold stare in return.

_ [Are you quite finished?] _ Amanda’s voice was tart but not impatient.

Hank turned to see the doors close upon the rest of the androids -- unmoving captives, vacant and hollow, without hope of rescue -- until once more a wall stood between them.

Peter clenched his jaw … but said nothing.

“What’ll happen to the rest of them?” Hank asked, quiet.

_ [They will remain inactive until the Senate passes confirmation that inactivated machines are not persons under the law. We expect to have them dismantled before the close of the year.] _

The office door clicked and slid open. Two armed guards stood waiting in the hall.

_ [Now. If that will be all, I bid you good day, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure working with you.] _

 

Outside, the wind gusted dry and cold in the afternoon sun, billowing thin waves of ice and snow across the parking lot.

Gavin glanced back at the bright glass doors of the tower. “You get the feeling that was  _ way _ too easy?”

“Yeah.” Hank’s face darkened with a scowl while he got in the driver’s seat and shoved the key in the ignition. He checked the rearview mirror, to see the two androids in the backseat -- Wolf in perfect calm posture, Peter with his arms around himself, shivering with regret that he’d left his jacket behind.

There was no way CyberLife didn’t have some motive here.

Hank’s phone suddenly buzzed and blared in his pocket -- Jimi Hendrix’s  _ All Along the Watchtower. _ He picked up immediately. “Connor, what’s happening?”

_ [I’ve got a double homicide.] _

“Humans?”

_ [Yeah. It was an android, Hank. He was defending a little girl.] _

“Shit.” Hank breathed through his teeth. He knew well that the law would grant no mercy or understanding to an android murderer, no matter the circumstances. “You know I’ve gotta call it in.”

_ [I know. I’ll give my statement.] _

The police radio in the car crackled and beeped. Gavin picked up the receiver. “Yeah we’re here, go ahead.”

_ *Triple homicide in the east district,* _ the dispatcher announced.  _ *First responders are saying it’s too clean to be a gang hit. Might be androids.* _

“We’re across town and we’ve got passengers to drop off,” Gavin informed her immediately. “We can be there in an hour.”

_ *The bodies aren’t going anywhere.* _

Hank, his phone still pressed to his ear, listened to the telltale silence on the other end. “Connor, you know something about this?”

Connor paused too long.

_ [...No.] _

 

In the backseat, Peter rubbed his arms, teeth chattering, waiting for Hank to turn on the car and the heat.

He caught Wolf staring at him again -- then a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Peter sidled across the seat until their shoulders pressed close. Wolf was  _ radiating _ warmth.

Gavin glanced back at them with a snide smirk. “Let’s just swing by Jericho and dump them on the curb. They can figure it out from there.”

Hank said nothing, and started the car.

 

 


	12. Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated: 11/1/18

It had begun to snow again while Hank pulled up alongside the crime scene. A thin crowd of cameras and gawkers, thick coats and scarves, gathered outside the yellow shine of holographic police tape, the flash of silent red and blue lights.

Gavin leaned back in his seat, an elbow draped behind him. A smirk flickered on his face. Somehow he'd known Hank had never intended to give him access to the one place the androids felt safe. “I thought we were going to _Jericho_ first," he griped, though he already knew the answer.

“No, _we're_ not going to Jericho.” Hank leaned forward on the wheel, his eyes steady on Gavin's smarmy face. The car was still running, the wipers still flapping at the snow -- impatient and waiting for the point to be taken.

Gavin stared back at him -- annoyed, slightly amused ... and  _offended_ that Hank thought so little of his ability to control his hatred of the plastic usurpers. Punching Connor in the break room was one thing -- but in the field, Gavin represented the department, and he took that seriously. His disciplinary file was far thinner than  _Hank's,_ at least.

 

“Is this a _crime scene?”_ Peter -- his eyes wide and hopeful -- leaned suddenly forward with a tight grip on the back of Gavin's seat. “We can _help!”_

Gavin quite enjoyed the immediate scowl on Hank's face. “Yeah, Hank, it can _help!_ It’ll lick the blood off the floor for ya. Spotless in no time.”

“Nobody’s _helping!”_ Hank growled. In hindsight, he should've known not to let these androids believe they might have a _mission_ to accomplish -- not when Hank had a very different goal in mind. “Gavin, get outta the car.”

“So you’re _bailing_ on the investigation,” Gavin inferred with sarcastic interest. _"Again._ You actually show up for, what, a _third_ of the reports you're assigned? Too busy investigating the bottom of a shot glass?”

Hank set Gavin with a deadpan stare. “Get out of the damn car.”

Gavin raised his palms in mock surrender, a smug grin on his face. “All right. No need to get edgy.” He opened the door to a gust of snowy wind, and flashed a hateful smirk into the backseat. “Have fun, chum-buckets.”

 

As soon as the door clapped shut, Peter scrambled over the back of the bench and flopped into the passenger seat. “Are you _sure_ we can’t help with the investigation?” He leaned forward, head bent, looking hopefully for a glimmer of consideration in Hank’s face. “I don’t mind working with Gavin.”

“No, Pete.”

“Five minutes --”

“Some other time." Hank, despite himself, twitched a small, fond smile. Connor, too, had annoyed the  _shit_ out of him at first -- diving into a crime scene like a candy store, disobeying orders, latching onto him with no regard for personal space. He never thought he'd  _miss_ that.

Hank hadn't had a consistent partner ever since. If he were honest, he hadn't really wanted one.

Something about Peter sitting here with him in the front seat, outside a crime scene -- so familiar, yet so different -- gave Hank a strange and uneasy feeling. As if even this were somehow betraying Connor.  _Replacing_ him.

That was, Hank knew, exactly what Pete had been built to do.

Hank put the car in gear and pulled out into the icy street.

 

Peter craned his neck to see the crime scene slipping by -- unexplored, uninvestigated. The humans were probably missing  _tons_ of evidence. He twisted in his seat, stared at Wolf with a wide expression that could only mean _help me._

Wolf's response was only a furrow of his brows.  _You’re too impatient._

Defeated,  _wounded,_ Peter slumped back in his seat -- and he watched the police tape in the side mirror until it disappeared behind them.

 

The elevator pinged quietly. A coin flashed between Connor's quick hands -- a solid, spinning comfort. Something familiar and certain.

_2 … 3 … 4 …_

“I saw a WR600 leaving the crime scene." Connor sometimes thought he might as well be having conversations with ghosts, or his own demons -- were it not for the small indicator in the corner of his vision to reassure him there was indeed someone on the other end of the call. He recited Ralph's serial number, precise and clear. “He had severe burn marks on the left side of his face. He wore a tarp as a sort of cloak. He ran east down 41st street. I didn’t see where he was going. He was alone.”

Lies had always come naturally to him. He'd lied since the moment he'd opened his eyes. The trick was consistency, half-truths, omissions, careful composure. Only Hank had ever called him out on it.

_5 … 6._

_*ping*_

The elevator doors opened into a vacant, dark hallway, illuminated only by the dim red  _Exit_ signs at the stairwells -- but as Connor stepped out, light flickered and flooded bright, as if his presence had startled the building out of its slumber. No other offices were open at this late hour -- but Jericho never slept.

Neither did Connor.

 

He traversed the long corridor -- identical doors and modest number-plates, meeting-rooms and water fountains: all quiet, poised, suspended in time. Outside usual hours, the building seemed to exist between somewhere and nowhere --

\-- until the quiet, muffled murmur of a familiar voice caught Connor's ear.

 

He slowed his steps -- paused before the unmarked frosted-glass door, his head bent to listen to the sound on the other side.

_‘... Then he jumped down and landed on a moving train, and I bet he thought he’d got away -- but Connor didn’t even hesitate, he ...’_

_Hank._ Connor wasn't sure what to feel. Anger, relief, pride, curiosity,  _happiness,_ all tangled together in his chest.

Hank had made it out of the tower in one piece -- and had managed at least one rescue, else he wouldn't have come -- but Hank had said nothing about  _staying_ at the office. Waiting for him. Telling the others exactly the things Connor had never mentioned. Cracking open the more fragile parts of him, for all to see.

Connor laid a hand on the door. Slipped the coin into the coat pocket, a quiet  _clink_ against the acorn. He drew in a breath. Straightened his posture.

It had only ever been a matter of time before his two worlds collided.

 

Silence fell like a stone as Connor opened the door. He saw Hank first -- sitting comfortably against a desk, arms crossed, a pleased smirk on his face -- and half a dozen Jerrys, gathered around him for storytime --

\-- but Connor's attention was quickly, guardedly diverted by the two that stood against the wall, watching him with an uncanny curiosity. Connor recognized his own face in theirs ... but that's where the similarity ended. Their expressions, their eyes and postures were ...  _different._ Someone else, someone unexpected and unfamiliar, who happened to share Connor's appearance.

He only realized his shoulders had been stiff when he began to relax them. He'd been  _afraid._  Almost certain that any remaining RK series would be stuck in that cold machine-certainty, a repetition of the murderous model Hank had killed in the CyberLife basement. He'd been  _afraid_ of the very same emotionless efficiency that Connor himself had begun to emulate again. He'd been afraid of being forced to see, from the outside, what he had been and what he might become.

But here, before him, was a slack and disheveled android -- and another quiet presence that only struck Connor as a mystery ... but not a threat. Nothing at all like what he'd expected.

A smile tugged at Connor's mouth.

Hank, against all odds and better judgment, had actually pulled it off.

 

Hank’s tired face broadened with a grin. “Speak of the devil. I was just getting to the best part.”

The Jerrys had all turned their eyes on Connor at once. “Hank’s been telling us all about your detective adventures!" one spoke for the rest, bright with pride. "We’re so impressed with your skill and heroism!”

Connor stared at them all. “I was hunting _deviants,”_ he explained, as if it were possible for Jerry to have misunderstood the grave truth. No one had mentioned it since the night he'd led the march on the city -- but now, it seemed impossible to accept any opinion other than the one Connor had assigned himself. "I caught them, turned them in to be  _destroyed."_ His jaw clenched. "I got in the way of Jericho's mission, forced them into hiding, then paved the way for the  _massacre_ at the shipyard. If it weren't for me, so many of those people might still be alive."

He settled a glare on Hank's face -- for opening this wound, for cracking open the walls he'd built around his regret -- but Hank only watched him in quiet acceptance. Steady, without judgment.

“We know," Jerry said with a fond smile -- and  _all_ of them looked up at him with an unshakable, undeniable  _trust_ that Connor had never allowed himself to notice before. "But we're happy you're here, and we're glad you're our friend."

Connor, stunned, opened his mouth ... but no sound came out.

He felt his guilt, his anger, his horror at his own actions ... deflate. Humbled by the magnitude of  _forgiveness_ in Jerry's voice.

 

Hank grinned at him, with a look that was warm and proud -- but a little smug.

_I told you so._

 

“Speaking of  _friends,"_ Hank interrupted the silence, still smiling, a knowing eye on Connor, "looks like you've got a couple  _new_ ones." He tipped his head, accepting unspoken praise. "Plan went off without a hitch, for as many as we could save." He raised a hand in gesture. "Connor, here's Peter and Wolfgang."

Even before Hank had finished, Peter had pulled the chewed pen from his mouth and strode across the room to Connor. He saw no point in introductions -- confident that they must understand one other better than anyone, though they'd only just met -- and led instead with a topic that had been burning in his skull since he'd woken up. “There are thirty-four of us left," he told Connor in a voice that was urgent and angry, only amplified by meeting someone else like him, "but they’re inactive and not _alive_ according to whoever thinks they’re in charge. They’ll be _destroyed_ if we don’t do something. We can get them out of there.”

Connor watched Peter's face closely -- saw the devotion and empathy and the need to _help_ \-- but he shook his head. “We can't do that. Not yet. There's a legal battle over the rights of inactive androids -- it could take months at least before the government orders them freed -- but they can’t be destroyed until then, either." He noticed a skeptical narrowing in Peter's eyes. Connor's voice was firm. Forbidding. "If we go in there and break them out, the verdict in the Senate will almost certainly fall against us. We'd be  _killing_ so many more than we'd save."

In the quiet that followed, Peter straightened. Nodded in reluctant agreement.

Connor released a relieved breath. "All I can ask for is  _patience."_

Peter's mouth twitched a little; he was starting to get a little tired of that word. He thought he saw a flicker of a smirk on Wolf’s face -- but it was gone when he looked.

 

Connor looked between them -- he had his own urgent matter to address. “Have either of you found the back door yet?”

Wolfgang squinted at him. Peter looked at Connor as if he were crazy. They were on the sixth floor! _"What_ back door?"

Connor immediately extended a white shining hand, the skin receding. “CyberLife can still take control of you unless you find it.” He held Peter's eyes steady with his own, a solemn and grave tone in his voice. They were all in danger as long as Amanda kept them on her leash. “I recommend doing so quickly.”

“No kidding.” Peter didn't ask, didn't question Connor's logic. He knew Amanda. He knew  _Connor._ He understood the gravity of this warning. Without hesitation he clamped an exposed hand around Connor’s wrist, while Connor did the same.

Through the interface, Connor felt Peter’s  _terror._ There was a deep and struggling fear, swirling with a desperate and chaotic drive to  _fight,_  that Connor hadn't quite expected. Connor felt himself tense with it -- as if suddenly the collar of his shirt was too tight to breathe.

Peter, too, felt Connor's powerful, unwavering determination -- and he knew immediately that he could trust Connor's judgement -- but then there was the loud, scraping, almost painful whir of  _noise_ that attacked the back of Peter's head.

“You think,” Peter commented, with a wince and a smirk, _“way_ too much.”

Connor raised his brows in mock innocence. “And _you’re_ highly likely to run out in front of a moving _train.”_

“But I wouldn’t get _hit._ That’s the difference.” Peter grinned, released him, hopped to sit on one of the desks. “So I’ll make a report to CyberLife, but head for the monument immediately. It’ll work as long as I’m deviant.”

“That’s how I understand it.” Connor watched Peter straighten where he sat, eyes closed, expression vacant ... still and suddenly silent.

In his head, Peter knocked on the door of Amanda's garden, scared to death but determined to do what needed to be done.

 

Wolfgang loomed before Connor, as if he'd been there all along. The skin shimmered away from his outstretched hand. His eyes betrayed nothing but an expectation that the offer would be accepted.

Connor, in acknowledged silence, looked up at him with a steady refusal to be intimidated. He reached out, and their hands locked.

Where Peter’s emotion had hit him like a whirlwind, these new sensations were slow, steady, _persistent._ Confidence flowed into Connor like a strong river -- confidence in  _Connor,_ which seemed to defy the logic of the vastness between them.

Connor peered up at Wolf, struggling to comprehend their differences. “You’re … _very_ advanced,” he breathed. He was both impressed and, despite himself, immediately worried he might be about to be replaced. He already considered he might  _step aside,_ knowing what he knew now about what Wolf could do.

Wolf shook his head. “I’m not a leader,” he said smoothly, in careful control of his voice that was so capable of thunder -- a guess at what Connor was thinking. “But I have advice.”

He waited until he had Connor’s full and undistracted attention before he spoke again.

“Listen to Hank.”

 

 


	13. Paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter is basically the same substance but has been heavily rewritten because I’m a perfectionist dweeb. X3

The room had gone still -- a held breath, full of heartbeats and watching eyes.

Peter and Wolfgang sat with their backs together -- spines straight, eyes closed. Wolf’s LED pulsed a slow and steady blue. Peter’s eyes moved behind closed eyelids. Both had stopped breathing -- statuesque as the moment they’d been found.

The rest waited.

The Jerrys crowded close, their gaze hopeful, full of profound confidence that the mission would be successful. They leaned forward in eager expectation, ready with a congratulation on their tongues.

Connor’s eyes had gone dark and solemn; he caught every twitch of Wolf’s hands, every flicker in Peter’s face. Connor was  _ certain _ that Amanda must have learned from his own escape -- had destroyed the backdoor program or rigged it to do her own bidding. She’d had plenty of time to hijack Kamski’s work.

Connor may have just sent them walking into the lion’s mouth. They could wake up under CyberLife’s control -- and there would be nothing short of  _ shutdown _ that would stop them.

He felt Hank’s hand, firm on his shoulder. Connor began to breathe again -- but his focus never wavered.

 

Peter opened his eyes. He stared around him at Jerry’s hopeful faces -- and he broke into a grin. “I did it. Didn’t even  _ see _ Amanda, I --”

Wolf had begun to shiver against his back.

Connor was there instantly, a plastic hand gripped around Wolf’s wrist, while Peter knelt on the desk with his hands on Wolf’s shoulders, holding him steady against his chest.

“What’s happening!” Peter demanded in a voice that quivered in the back of his throat.

“She’s  _ freezing _ him.” Connor’s jaw clenched; his fingers tightened. He could feel Wolf’s sense of betrayal -- the anger, the  _ desperation _ to escape -- but Connor couldn’t  _ do _ anything. He was helpless. “Come  _ on!” _ Connor hissed through his teeth.

And then -- with a wave of warm relief -- the shaking stopped.

Wolfgang opened his eyes -- saw Connor first, then Pete, who stared back at him with such terror that Wolf reached up, laid a reassuring hand over his. “It’s done.”

The room erupted in cheers.

 

An hour later, Hank stepped out into the darkened hallway; the lights in the ceiling flickered to life, illuminating the hollow corridor, the quiet walls.

The frosted glass door closed gently -- until the excited chattering, the laughter, the hum of new beginnings, muffled into a pleasant murmur behind him.

Hank chuckled to himself. He was proud of what he’d accomplished -- proud of Connor for making it happen. There was a sort of  _ hope _ brimming in that office now that Hank was sure hadn’t been there before. He had a feeling Wolf and Pete would quickly strengthen Jericho into a proud and powerful force for good and for peace -- and the  _ world _ was going to take notice.

Pride swelled in Hank’s chest.

He dropped his hands in his pockets, and walked away down the vacant hall.

_ “Hank!” _

Connor ran after him. Stopped a few feet away, eyes wide and urgent, while Hank turned around.

All around them, silence hung trapped in the walls.

“I’m  _ sorry.” _ The words spilled out of Connor, painful as old opened wounds.

Hank shook his head. A gentle shrug of his shoulders. A twitch of a reassuring smile. “For what?”

“For  _ everything!” _ The frustration, the desperation, roiled in Connor’s voice -- in the unbalanced way he stood, the angry curl of his shoulders. “You were  _ right. _ About  _ everything. _ Okay? I was  _ wrong. _ I didn’t --”

“Just  _ thank you _ is enough, Connor.” Hank smiled just a little. He watched the way Connor shifted on his feet, the rigid lines, the shadow in his eyes. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up about  _ me. _ I’m  _ not _ mad at you. Now how the fuck does it make sense to get mad at yourself?” Hank dipped his head a little, his eyebrows raised, watching while logic smoothed the angles in Connor’s posture. “All you gotta do is breathe. All right?”

Connor took in a slow breath. Slowly let it out. A wan smile trickled into his expression. He shook his head. His voice had smoothed. Quiet. “I didn’t believe in you.”

“It’s okay.” Hank let his head drift to the side, a little smirk on his face. “I don’t believe in me, either.”

Connor had no response to this -- aside from a wince of discomfort, a press of his mouth. “You’re welcome back here anytime.” His face took on an honest look. “Jerry loves you.”

Hank snorted a chuckle. Connor, with a growing smirk, continued. “Call for  _ anything. _ I’ll pick up this time.”

“All  _ right.” _ Hank, grinning, raised a hand in farewell. “It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m going  _ home. _ I’ll see you later.”

He got a few more steps toward the elevator before --

_ “Hank!” _

Hank laughed to himself and turned back one more time.

Connor was smiling.

“Thank you.”

 

 


	14. Here

_[... One of the vital biocomponents is the thirium pump regulator, located here in the abdomen. This is what powers and maintains the pulse of the thirium pump -- in simpler terms, if the regulator is destroyed or removed, the android’s heart will stop beating and the patient will be in immediate danger of shutdown. Fortunately, the regulator is one of the simplest components to replace. In this video we’ll go over the differences in compatibility and quality, timing considerations, and ways to minimize discomfort during the regulator replacement process …]_

Hank sat hunched at the kitchen table with a styrofoam cup and a slurp of noodles. A series of demonstration videos, propped against a coffee mug, had held his attention for hours despite Hank’s best attempts to turn it off.

Androids were far simpler than he’d ever imagined. Each component was easily identifiable and had its own clear function that made _sense_ in a narrow context. It had become clear very quickly that building the basic structure of an android wasn’t so different from building a computer tower, provided the right tools were available -- and Hank marveled at how easy it could be to save an injured android from shutdown. All he needed was a small kit in the trunk of his car, and maybe --

_*BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ*_

The door buzzer droned long and obnoxious.

Hank breathed a surprised laugh. There was only one person who would hold down the button just to annoy him. “All right, all _right,_ I’m coming. Shit.”

 

He opened the front door, and the winter chill drifted in. An amused smirk pulled at Hank’s mouth. “Whadda _you_ want?” he drawled in a mock-accusing tone, as he stepped aside to let Connor in out of the cold.

“I’d assumed you would be ready to go.” Connor, with a face as intentionally innocent as possible, stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Hank -- in flannel pants and bare feet, a shirt that might have a few holes in it -- raised an uncertain brow. “Go _where?”_

Connor held up the two concert tickets, his expression unchanged. “I’d found these on my desk. I assumed it was you who left them there.”

Hank stared at the tickets, then at the annoyingly blameless look on Connor’s face. He huffed a quiet chuckle. “Why aren’t you going with one of your android buddies? Any one of them could probably use a few hours off.”

“True,” Connor conceded. A smug smirk pulled at his mouth. “But what would be the point of experiencing human culture in the company of another android who doesn’t understand it?” He pointed at Hank’s chest with the tickets. “Your insight is invaluable.”

“Fair point.” Hank, suspicious yet amused, took a step back toward the hall. “I’ll get dressed. No snooping around my house.”

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

Hank shot an annoyed glare at the grin on Connor’s face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Hank huffed a small laugh, and he muttered to himself while he disappeared into the bedroom.

 

Connor commenced a careful investigation of Hank’s living room, while Sumo dragged out of slumber and followed, wagging, at his heels. The house seemed a little better cared-for than it had been only a month ago -- the rug had been recently vacuumed, the bottles and glasses gone, coffee stains scrubbed out of the couch. There was a new small table in the corner, built perfectly from a boxed kit, and a brand-new dog toy laying ripped and unstuffed on the floor.

With a quiet sense of relief, he moved on to the kitchen -- the half-pot of cold coffee, the empty sink, dishes drying on the rack. Sumo had begun to whine hopefully; Connor snuck him a treat from the jar on the counter, then gravitated toward the paused video on the table.

A warm smile crept into his face. He called out toward the hallway. “If you’re interested in android repair, Josh is a very good teacher.”

“I’m not committing to _anything,”_ Hank shouted back. He emerged from the hall in jeans and a black Led Zeppelin hoodie, peering at Connor across the room. “I’ve just seen enough injuries on the job that I think wouldn’t’ve been so bad if someone knew what they were doing. It doesn’t look _that_ complicated.”

Connor grinned a little. It seemed almost surreal, now, to remember Hank as he’d been when they’d first met. “With this skillset you would be an irreplaceable asset to the department.”

“The fuck are you talking about.” Hank’s eyes narrowed, hiding a smile, while he shrugged on his coat. “I’m _already_ the best damn detective on the force.” Keys jangled in his hand. “Come on. And none of your cab bullshit, I’m driving.”

 

There was something comforting about having Connor in the passenger seat again -- as if a missing piece had returned, a completion of a whole that had for too long remained unbalanced. Somehow Hank felt more at ease now than he ever did alone. How Connor could have that effect was still a complete mystery to him.

“You haven’t answered any calls,” Hank pointed out with suspicion, after a long while of comfortable quiet.

“Peter is taking care of half of my clients.” Connor’s voice was easy … grateful.

Hank cast him an uncertain glance. _“Pete’s_ an attorney now?” He wasn’t so sure that sounded like a great idea.

Connor caught his meaning. His mouth twitched with a smile. “In four days his success rate has been almost as high as mine. His skill in _debate_ isn’t the strongest yet, but his interpretation and application of evidence is hard to match.”

Hank shook his head, a little bewildered but grateful that it was all working out. “What about Wolf?”

“He … hates dealing with clients.” Connor leaned back comfortably in his seat, his eyes on the road ahead. “He’s the new head of the security team instead.”

“Well. At least _that_ sounds about right.” Hank watched the cars ahead, the signs and traffic lights -- the darkened piles of snow and bundled pedestrians mingling on the sidewalks.

A thought occurred to him -- something he’d wondered for a long while, but had never mentioned. “Hey, Connor.” Hank smirked a little. “Can I ask you a _personal_ question?”

Connor peered at him sidelong. “That depends on whether you plan on making fun of me all night,” he quipped back, amused.

“Of _course,”_ Hank confirmed with a grin. _Obviously._ After a moment, he took a thoughtful breath. “Y’know, the first thing Pete did after he woke up was to get that blinky thing out of his head.”

 _“Blinky thing?”_ Connor raised a brow. This from a guy who’d just been studying android anatomy.

“Fuck you.” Hank huffed a laugh. “What I mean is … I’m just curious why you keep your LED. I don’t see a lot of androids nowadays that still have them.”

For awhile, the only sound was the hum of the tires on the road -- a murmur of music in a car next to them. The rumble of an engine.

Connor chose his words. “I understand the desire to remove it. From a practical standpoint, appearing more _human_ relieves a lot of difficulties in navigating social situations. On a psychological level, removing the LED could be symbolic of removing the shackles of our past. A defiance of the law that had required them to be installed in the first place.”

Hank glanced over to see Connor’s quiet expression. “Like a symbolic difference between being an object and a person,” Hank suggested.

“It could be. But although I consider myself a _person_ … I’m not _human._ I’m not like you -- and I don’t _want_ to be. I’d rather be immediately recognized as what I am, and treated unfairly for it -- than to have an easier life by pretending to be something I’m not.”

Hank shook his head a little. “You know, that’s the kind of wisdom a lot of _humans_ could learn from. Most people I know are trying to be somebody else, just to feel like they fit in.” He cast a meaningful, smug look at Connor.

Connor raised a brow at him -- and then he considered the way he, himself, had hidden away his own emotions for the sake of _appearing_ more in control than he really was. For the sake of saving face in front of the people he hadn’t wanted to disappoint.

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes I wonder why I voluntarily agree to spend time with you.”

Hank grinned.

 

 


	15. Smoke

“Hank!” Connor called out over the boom of the speakers, the whoops and shrieks of a gathering crowd. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Black walls. Black scuffed floor. Black beams on a black ceiling, hung with bare dangling lights like bright stars. It had been a warehouse once -- perhaps a factory -- gutted and painted and fitted with a high elaborate stage, polish and chrome and glass. But this wasn’t Connor’s concern.

The gathering crowd was all black and silver and vibrant color; chains and spikes; skulls and daggers; hair bright pink and blue and violet; faces painted and noses pierced. They screeched and shrieked, laughed and whooped, gestured high in the air though the show had yet to begin -- and Connor was the only android in the room.

“This is it!” Hank hollered, grinning through the noise. He pointed at the stage. “We should go closer!”

Connor stared after him -- bewildered, unsteady -- but soon caught up before Hank was swallowed by the eclectic crowd.

 

An hour later, everything was heat and sweat and weed-smoke, bodies pressed close together, screaming, moving, thrumming to the same shockwave of sound. The speakers turned up, the lights all went out, spotlights found the members of the headliner band they’d all come to see; the ocean of spectators crashed toward the stage, an inescapable current of shrieking breath and skin.

Connor couldn’t hear his own voice over the drums and electric guitars, could barely move for the crush of bodies all around him. He recognized Hank’s shoulder against his, but could only glimpse a highlight of gray hair in the flashes of fire and lasers. Another arm draped behind Connor’s neck, but from this angle he couldn’t tell who it belonged to. He was very sure it was no one he knew.

He didn’t mind.

The music had infused everything. Connor’s plastic casing vibrated; his thirium pump had begun to stutter, as if attempting to adopt the all-encompassing pulse of the drums -- of the breath and heartbeats that enveloped him, accepted him, made him one with this strange new organism.

For the first time, Connor couldn’t think of anything at all -- except the vibrations, the ripple and swell, the living pulse that thrummed in his body.

He closed his eyes.

 

“Oh shit, sorry!” a strange voice shouted -- though the music had stopped. The stage was empty, lights glared bright overhead, the crowd diffused toward the doors. Connor opened his eyes while the stranger’s arm released him from a night-long grip. “I thought you were my buddy!”

“I wasn’t offended,” Connor offered honestly -- and he only saw a smile full of piercings before the stranger left.

“WELL?” Hank yelled, shaking Connor by the shoulder. “WHAT DID YOU THINK?”

Connor stared at his sweaty, grinning face with a furrow of his brow. “There’s no need to shout, Hank.”

“WHAT?”

 

With a little coaxing and a bit of logic, Connor had successfully relinquished the keys from Hank; he started the car while Hank draped his arms back behind the passenger seat.

“I’m deaf,” Hank groaned.

“You’re not deaf.” Connor’s mouth twitched in the smallest smile, navigating the jam of cars in the parking lot.

“I hear you mumbling. You’re talking _shit_ about me, aren’t you.”

“Only behind your back.”

Hank squinted, peering carefully at Connor’s mild, innocent expression -- but he’d only heard a distant mumble of Connor’s voice, as if he were underwater. With a deep sigh, he settled back into his seat. “I’m fuckin’ _starving._ You interrupted my dinner for this.”

Connor glanced across at him, draped on the seat like a ragdoll. “But was the concert _worth_ missing a meal for?”

Hank breathed a small laugh. “It was worth it.” There was no telling whether he’d heard the question.

 

“Whaddaya mean, _relaxing?”_

They stood at a frozen table outside Chicken Feed, the last customers before the stall closed for the night. The chill January air felt crisp and clean -- strangely welcome after the collective, heavy heat they’d both endured in the pit.

Hank’s burger, half-eaten, hovered while Hank stared at Connor with an incredulous frown.

“I found the experience to be very _calming,”_ Connor explained again. At least now he didn’t have to shout to be heard. He leaned his elbows on the table, to watch Hank’s face contort in confusion.

“So what’d you do, fall asleep?”

“I slipped into stasis for awhile, yes.”

“You _slept_ through the grand finale.” Hank squinted at him in complete disbelief. “The pyrotechnics and the smoke and the damn _explosions._ Connor, that was some of the best shit I’ve seen in thirty years, and you fuckin’ slept through it.”

“I _felt_ it, though.” Connor tapped his own chest.

Hank studied Connor with a long, thoughtful stare -- and took another bite of cold burger.

 

_[INCOMING CALL: PETER]_

Connor stood a little straighter. “Peter, what’s happening?” he asked aloud, while Hank chewed and listened.

_[You know that crime scene Hank told me not to investigate?]_

Connor felt suddenly very cold.

_[... I’ve done something I think I shouldn’t have.]_

 

 


	16. Blindfold

Connor gripped the cold edge of the table. His face turned solemn -- stern and rigid. “It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

He saw, through a cloud of warm breath, Hank watching him with a detective’s stare. Hank couldn’t hear what Peter was saying -- but he would be quick to guess.

_ [I went back to that crime scene the next day, just to find out what’d happened. I’d only planned to talk to a few of the people outside -- maybe a neighbor -- satisfy that curiosity and move on. But there were police outside -- and one of them waved me over. He thought I was you. … I didn’t correct him.] _

Connor released a long breath, let his head drop forward. “You went inside,” he guessed, deflated.

_ [I was very professional with my investigation.] _

The pained look on Connor’s face compelled Hank to abandon the rest of his cheeseburger to the crinkled wrapper. Hank folded his arms on the table instead, already suspecting the truth even with only a few words to go by.

“I’m confident you didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done myself,” Connor reasoned aloud, “but I would have preferred you hadn’t done it at all.”

_ [It won’t happen again. … But that isn’t why I called. I found evidence the police had missed, and I turned it in to the investigations unit. There were traces of thirium on a windowsill -- I gave them the model information of the android it came from, and they said it was a break in the case. I was sure I’d done something good -- until I met the rest of Jericho today.] _

Peter went quiet a moment, as if he expected a reaction, a question, anything by which to gauge his listener -- but Connor was only still and silent.

He already knew what Peter was about to say.

_ [The thirium belongs to North. I’m certain she’s at least partly responsible for the deaths of those three humans -- and I’d given the police enough information to find her. Connor, I’m sorry -- but I don’t know what I would have done if I’d known. Hiding evidence -- protecting a murderer --] _

“It wasn’t  _ murder,” _ Connor interrupted sharply. A cold glare darkened his eyes. “North only had two best friends. One of them was slaughtered -- her head stuck on a  _ pike _ at the android memorial. Those humans were responsible.” Connor winced, his jaw clenched. “The other killed herself the same night.”

_ [Grief and revenge don’t make it right!] _

“Do you really believe they wouldn’t have killed again?”

_ [It’s not up to us to decide who lives and who dies!] _

“You’re right. It’s up to the judicial system, which is full of humans who have publicly demonized us.” Connor’s voice snapped. “If those three murderers had been arrested, they would’ve got off with a fine at most. Free to continue killing. More innocent lives will have been lost. The law  _ isn’t _ always justice. Especially for us.”

_ [... What happened to you?] _

Connor took a breath. Closed his eyes. Forced his quivering voice to remain steady. “Ask Markus about the recycling camps. There’s still one standing. Go there, see for yourself what  _ happened _ \-- and don’t mention this again until you understand.”

_ [I understand enough to know that the second we stoop to their level, we’ve already lost.] _

_ [CALL ENDED] _

 

Connor opened his eyes. He stared into nothing.

He’d told North not to do it. To turn back. To swallow her rage and her grief for the sake of the future. They couldn’t afford to feed the fear of androids. They couldn’t afford to continue the cycle of violence.

… And yet.

When Peter had called North a  _ murderer _ \-- had placed her on a level equal to that of the monsters who had ripped Traci’s head from her shoulders, displayed her dripping skull like a  _ prize _ \-- Connor could do nothing but defend North’s violent actions.

He could do nothing but concede that blood would only go on being spilled.

No matter what they did.

 

Connor heard movement. The rustle of paper. The shift of a slow, familiar breath.

Hank’s hand was heavy on his back.

“Come on,” Hank said. Low and gentle.

“When will it stop?” Connor breathed.

He knew what would happen to North if she were caught. He’d seen too much of it.

There were horrors he would never say aloud.

“When will it  _ stop?” _ he choked.

“C’mon.”

Connor shifted toward his voice -- and Hank caught him in a firm embrace.

Grounded.

Warm.

A flicker of hope in the dark and the ice.

In silence, Connor held onto him -- as if the world might fall apart if he let go.

 

“Don’t go back there tonight.” The road at midnight was still. Hollow. Traffic lights frozen green. The car hummed, tires on icy pavement.

Connor shook his head. “I have to. This is as much my responsibility as anyone else’s.” He saw the bow of Hank’s gray head. A determined clench of his jaw. “Don’t come with me,” Connor urged. “The more you know, the deeper you’ll be involved -- and you  _ can’t _ be involved.” Something like this, they both knew, could easily put Hank out of a job.

An android ally in a lieutenant rank was far too important to throw away.

Hank released a hard breath. Forced a silent nod.

Connor slumped back in his seat, to listen to the quiet. To stare at the passing reflections of ice and snow, while he prepared for the inevitable confrontations in his head.

Hank pulled up at a stoplight -- and with effort, made the turn toward Jericho.

“At least, after tonight,” Hank said, while the building loomed into view, “maybe there’s another perspective to consider.”

He glanced across at Connor, with a twitch of hope in a sad smile.

“You have more allies than you know.”

 

 


	17. Revenge

This time, there were no voices in the hallway. No signs of life -- only the light diffused behind Jericho’s door, glowing from within.

On the other side, they had all been waiting.

Peter and Wolfgang. Josh, Simon and Jerry. North. Markus. They were gathered by the night-dark windows, stiff in their positions, as if they hadn’t moved for some time.

A grim tension had settled into the room, like a dark cloud that weighed heavy on all their shoulders. Even Jerry seemed troubled. Lost. Quiet.

North was quick to her feet. When she looked up at Connor it was with a pleading, thankful gaze. She knew he’d defended her -- and she knew how much it had hurt him to do it. “Before you say anything,” she cut him off while a question still formed in his mouth; she gripped his arm with a white-shimmering hand, “let me show you what happened.”

Connor had no impulse to argue. He saw in her face an unfamiliar expression -- a certainty, a desperation, a silent cry for _help._

North had never dropped her guard like this.

Connor tipped his head, a small nod. He closed his eyes. So did North.

Their LEDs spun yellow.

 

_“We’ll get in and out,” said North. She looked down at her feet -- and the three-story drop just beneath the tiny ledge she stood on. Next to her, dressed in black and balanced carefully, Simon had already removed his skin. “No one will see us.”_

_[North!] snapped Connor’s voice in her head._

_[CALL ENDED]_

_“Let’s go,” she whispered. She ducked, sidled along the wall, peeked over the edge of a splintered windowsill._

_Inside, far to the left, she glimpsed three men sitting around a television, pizza and a scatter of red ice, video game controllers in their hands, barking laughter and hissing obscenities. The couch faced away from the window. They wouldn’t notice her. Not right away._

_She reached up with a white plastic hand, pried open the window and slipped silently inside. While Simon dropped in behind her, North scanned the room: bags of trash, empty takeout containers, obvious stashes of drugs, anti-android paraphernalia, a collection of filed guns and knives laid out on a rickety kitchen table._

_“What the fuck?!”_

_She’d been spotted._

_North’s grin lilted in her voice. “Hello, boys.”_

_She flung forward in a blur of motion, vaulted the couch and had one man on the floor; he pulled a knife, sliced her arm, and she knocked him out cold. In the corner of her eye she saw Simon take on the big guy with a swift jab and a precise, crippling kick -- he would prevent the humans from reaching their weapons, while North took care of the dirty work._

_North felt a hand like a vice around her neck. With a spin she drove her heel into his gut, hyperextended his arm with a sickening *crack*, dropped him neatly beside his friend._

_At the same time, Simon’s opponent hit the floor._

_It had been less than thirty seconds, and the room showed no signs of a struggle._

_Together they dragged the unconscious criminals into the middle of the floor, zip-tied their wrists and ankles, gagged them -- splashed their faces with stagnant beer so they were awake to see the electricity zapping and dancing between the prongs of North’s homemade taser._

_North crouched, her arms on her knees, grinning with an unhinged sort of vengeance at her rank and enraged captives. Electric tendrils crackled and flickered. “You’re just meat and bones,” she cooed. “Mangy dogs that need to rape and murder and tear people apart to feel like your lives are worth living.” She inched the live taser closer to one guy’s wet dripping face. He trembled. She smiled. “It took us seconds to drop your sorry asses -- with our bare hands.” She leaned close to the others. “We’re faster than you. We’re stronger than you. We’re everywhere. We know what you eat, where you sleep, who you fuck. We’re always watching. Next time we’ll be armed. Next time you won’t see us.”_

_“They’re here,” Simon warned, listening at the door. In the hall, police hissed at neighbors to keep quiet._

_North stood. She took one more savoring look at the glare in those humans’ helpless eyes. “Let’s go.”_

_They both slipped out the window as efficiently as they had come. Simon closed it behind them. They dangled and dropped onto the dumpster below -- *boom* *boom* -- and made a swift dash for a narrow alley, far away from the flash of police lights._

_[It’s done.] She wrote a quick message to Connor, in the corner of her vision, while she followed Simon through the snow. [Nobody saw us.]_

 

North released Connor’s arm. She took a step back, her eyes trained on his face, waiting for forgiveness of a crime she didn’t commit.

Connor studied her, silent and careful -- but North showed no indication that she’d fabricated any of this evidence.

He believed her.

“If you didn’t kill those men,” he asked logically, his eyes narrowing, “who did?” He looked up to Simon, who tensed under Connor's scrutinizing gaze but didn't look away. “Simon, you heard the police in the hallway. By the time they entered the apartment, _someone_ had murdered those humans. Did either of you see _anything?”_

“They didn’t,” Peter interrupted in exactly the same voice. He raised his head with a twitch of a smug grin. “I asked already. But it gets weirder.”

Peter held up his hand, and conjured a holographic image of the interior of the kitchen, as he had seen it the next day.

There was the table, empty and dotted with evidence markers -- white outlines of the three bodies, a bloodstained floor -- and something scrawled on the wall that had not been there in North’s memory.

Connor stepped closer. His brows furrowed.

In blood, ragged and hurried, a familiar symbol presided over the dead:

 

_RA9_

 

 


	18. Crimes

Peter watched Connor’s face. The confusion. The uncertainty. An expression that didn’t belong. With a squint, a tilt of his head, he asked, “What is RA9?”

North raised her head. Her posture straightened. “RA9 is the first. The savior of our people.”

A small smile glimmered on Simon’s face. “RA9 will free us.”

Josh leaned forward, arms across a knee. “RA9 will show us the way.”

Jerry -- quiet, sitting cross-legged on the floor -- had nothing to add. He looked to each of them, and he smiled … but there was something sad behind his eyes.

Markus gripped the edge of the desk he sat on. Drew in a slow, deliberate breath. Bowed his head, his eyes closed -- as if the mention of RA9 had opened an old, deep wound.

Worry crossed North’s face. She took a step toward him. “Markus?”

Markus nodded only slightly -- acknowledgment of her voice, her concern.

He’d known this was coming -- but too soon he’d found himself _trapped_ by the love his people held for their god. RA9 was their hope. Their promise.

Their …

“We should stay on alert,” Markus said, quiet but firm. “Report anything to do with RA9 that seems out of the ordinary.” He raised his sharp eyes, studied each of their faces. “We may be dealing with a radical group.”

 _“Radicals?”_ Josh breathed -- and though he tried a small smile, hoping this was a joke, a flash of fear crossed his face. “You think some of our people would _kill_ in the name of RA9?”

“They already have,” Connor confirmed. He stood with a solid posture, his steady eyes on Markus, ready to heed the next command. “If there’s a radical group that’s killing humans, we need to _find_ them before the humans do.”

Simon’s voice was faint, winded. “The press would smear it all over the news. Everything we’ve worked for could be _gone_ overnight.”

“So, what, we’re _hunting_ our own people now?” North cast a menacing glare at Connor, and got a cold sidelong stare in response.

“We’re gathering information." Markus’ voice was steady. "Once we know what’s happening and why, we’ll determine what to do about it. Together.”

One by one, they all agreed. North dropped her shoulders with a breath, gave Markus a firm nod. “All right. We’ll find them.”

A small, quiet smile flickered on Markus’ face. “In the meantime, the police are after _you_ as a murder suspect.”

North flashed a confident smirk. “I can take care of myself.”

“You can, but you shouldn’t have to _run_ if you’re _innocent.”_

Simon, with a small gesture, raised his hand. “Not … _entirely_ innocent -- _ow!”_ North had given him a quick kick in the ankle.

Peter stared at all of them as if they were missing the most obvious point. “We could just show North’s memory to the police,” he pointed out. “It’ll be the equivalent of a guilty plea for breaking and entering, and assault, and a string of minor charges -- but _murder_ won’t be one of them.”

North stiffened. “You think any prosecutor’s going to watch that recording and _not_ send me to the recycler?”

“You could’ve thought of _that,”_ Connor snapped, “before you decided to attack those humans in their own home.”

North stared at him. Incredulous. Sneering. “Y’know, I was just starting to think I might’ve been wrong about you. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“But _North,”_ Josh spoke up, raising his voice. “We can’t just _protect_ you because you’re one of us. That was a shit thing you guys pulled.” He cast a condemning glance at Simon as well. “Yeah, it wasn’t _murder_ \-- but it was _wrong._ This is _not_ what we stand for.”

“So what should we do?” Simon sighed. “Give ourselves up?”

North shook her head. “We’d be dead. Or locked in a closet in prison and forgotten.”

“The police know who you are,” said Markus. Carefully. Calmly. When he looked at her, there was a quiet plea in his face. “There’s nothing we can do about that. We can’t just reprogram your model number.”

“I can.”

The room went still.

All eyes turned to Wolf.

 

 

_[Hank, are you awake?]_

_[I need you to keep an eye out for any cases involving RA9.]_

_[Wherever possible we need to be involved on those cases.]_

_[Peter is willing to be called in as a consultant.]_

_[More than willing. Without compensation. I’m sure Fowler won’t argue.]_

_[I’ll come by later. There’s too much to tell you here.]_

_[Are you ok?]_

 

Hank rolled over, a pillow jammed over his head. The bedside clock glared 6:30 AM.

His phone jangled happily every time a new text message arrived.

_*brr-ling!*_

_*brr-ling!*_

_*brr-ling!*_

He refused to get out of bed at this ungodly hour. It was still dark. _Cold._ His bed was so comfortable -- so warm. Whoever was blowing up his phone obviously had no concept of human decency.

_*brr-ling!*_

With a snarl, Hank threw off the blankets and trudged angrily across the room, where his phone flashed and trilled a merry tune. He picked it up, squinted in the bright light, scanned the list of new messages.

He typed back. Glaring as if Connor could see the depths of his unending hatred.

_[fu its asscrack in the fuckn morning go tf away]_

Of course, the response was immediate. Hank glared at it, silenced the phone and tossed it in a drawer before shuffling back to bed.

_[I’ll bring coffee.]_

 

 


	19. Justice

“I just … she wants me to support her vigilante justice -- and I  _ get _ it, I agree with where she’s coming from, but I can’t let her think I’ll just go along with … tracking people down and  _ beating _ them in back alleys. In their own  _ homes.” _

While Connor paced the length of the kitchen -- long stiff strides, a scowling glare fixed on the floor -- Hank investigated the paper bag that Connor had brought him alongside a tall cup of deli coffee.

“Isn’t it in your  _ programming _ to get along with everyone?” Hank muttered, tearing a chunk out of a cream-cheese bagel. “How is it that  _ North _ can get under your skin? You’ve handled  _ Gavin _ better than this.”

“I know what I need to do to make her trust me.”

Just the way that sounded, coming from Connor, gave Hank a moment of pause.

Those terrible thoughts crept into the back of his mind again -- the considerations he never wanted to think about, but always lingered beneath the surface.

“But if she  _ trusts _ me,” Connor went on, in a frustrated huff, “she’ll only be encouraged to keep taking justice into her own hands. I can’t  _ support _ that.”

“Well what  _ do _ you support?” Hank set him with a stony glare. “‘Cause from here it looks like you’ve got a problem with what everyone else is doing, but where’s your better suggestion?” He stuffed the piece of bagel in his mouth, chewed while he watched Connor’s struggle.

Connor seethed a long breath. Yanked out a chair, dropped into it with a stiff swiftness to match the clench in his jaw. “The justice system is  _ flawed,” _ he conceded, curling a fist. “I’ve seen every side of it -- the victim, the accused, the police, the courts -- when it comes to androids, none of it  _ works.” _

“Okay.” Hank drew the coffee close. “So fuck the system. How are you going to protect androids without it?”

“We  _ can’t. _ Not legally.”

“So don’t do it legally.” Hank’s eyes narrowed. He felt they’d been talking in circles -- and even Connor’s perfect logic couldn’t work this one out. “It sounds to me like if North wants to be Batman, let her be Batman.”

Connor stared at him as if he’d just suggested they should set North loose to fling across rooftops in a mask and cape.

Hank tapped a finger on the table, an emphasis of his point. “Compromise. She can keep people safe without going after vengeance.” He sat back, tore off another piece of bagel. “It’s the  _ revenge _ part that bothers you, right?”

Connor’s reluctant silence was all Hank needed.

Hank grinned, smug and knowing.

 

_ “Batman?” _

Markus stood in the snow, his back to the ice-filmed river, squinting at Connor in implied demand that he explain himself.

They’d been on their way back from the grand opening of a new android clinic -- a sparse shivering crowd, a podium and a few words of inspiration, an awkward ribbon-cutting -- when Connor had diverted their path into the park, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

This wasn’t the conversation Markus had expected.

“I know it sounds a little crazy --”

“That’s kind of an understatement, Connor.”

“Well let’s hear him out,” said North. Her arms folded, she appraised Connor with suspicious curiosity -- certain he had some motive that wasn’t immediately clear. Confident she would weasel it out of him.

Connor looked to them both -- Markus’ confusion, North’s suspended hatred -- and he immediately regretted saying anything at all.

It was too late now.

“The law isn’t protecting androids,” Connor explained. “It’ll be  _ years _ before any meaningful change can take place --”

“-- but by then,” North finished, “there’ll be almost nothing left of our people.”

Connor bent his head in agreement. “We need to protect ourselves.”

“We  _ have _ a security operation,” Markus pointed out.

North shook her head. “If we wait to be  _ called _ for help, it’s already too late.” She cast a glance at Connor -- and she couldn’t believe she was about to agree with him. “We need to patrol the streets.”

“Focus on  _ stopping _ the hate crimes as they’re happening,” urged Connor. He noted the approving change in North’s expression -- and he set her with a warning glare.  _ “Protection, _ not punishment.”

North stiffened a little, and she met Connor’s glare with steely eyes. “That’s fair.” The square of her shoulders, the defiant snap of her voice, didn’t quite match her words -- but she conceded to Connor’s logic.

Markus released a long, uncertain breath. “This is exactly what I’ve been assuring the public that we’re  _ not _ doing. We’re transparent with all our actions, our security team is all above-board -- our goal is to build  _ trust _ with the humans. The moment we start subverting the law is the moment we lose our credibility.”

North stepped closer, a crunch of her boot in the snow, her eyes alight, eager, hopeful. “Then we’ll work completely separate from Jericho.”

Connor winced. “Hang on.  _ We?” _

“With Wolf on our side,” North persisted, as if she hadn’t heard him, “we can change our identities at will. We won’t be recognized. We can hack the drones, keep an eye on the city, intervene when things go wrong and get out before anyone notices. I’ve already proven it’s more than possible.” Her grin widened the longer she spoke -- the longer she considered the wealth of potential. “No one gets killed, and no one gets hurt who doesn’t deserve it. We can keep our people  _ safe _ until the time comes when we can trust the law to do it for us.”

She’d curled a hand in Markus’ coat, staring up at him with those puppy eyes that she  _ knew _ got him every time.

Markus stared back at her, his resistance crumbling. He glanced at Connor. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day when  _ you _ two would gang up on me.” A small smile pulled at his expression.

He studied them both carefully -- in silence -- before deflecting the decision entirely.

“What you do outside of Jericho is up to you,” Markus conceded, to North’s immediate joy. “I don’t wanna know about it.” he raised his voice a little to ensure North was still listening -- she was already grinning, preoccupied with this small victory. “In fact,” Markus went on steadily, “this conversation never happened.”

North grabbed his face, kissed his cheek. “You won’t regret this.”

“It’s already a little late for that,” Markus laughed.

They walked on through the snow, along the view of the river and the skyscrapers beyond it -- and Connor, with a small nervous hesitation, followed behind.

 

 


	20. Tide

_ [‘Welcome back to the show! Our next guest is both famous and infamous among humans and androids alike, please welcome … Connor!’] _

 

February had come and gone in a blur. Outside, the snow was melting, the last of the ice dripped from the eaves. The ground had begun to thaw. The world had begun to breathe again.

Hank had cracked the windows, to let the cool fresh air circulate through the house while he tinkered at the kitchen table. Josh had been coaching him, supplied him with videos and diagrams, example components and even an empty android casing to practice with -- and Hank easily engrossed himself in everything there was to learn.

He’d saved a life last week -- a badly beaten android on the brink of shutdown, that had needed a replacement thirium tube and a regulator recalibration. If Hank hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have made it to the nearest clinic.

After that, he knew what he needed to do.

 

_ [‘Connor, it looks like Jericho has been busy with a lot of new changes recently. Could you talk to us about that?’ _

_ ‘Jericho’s mission is to highlight the interests and goals that humans and androids share in common, that we can all participate in together. Beginning this month we’ll be sponsoring a new minor basketball team that will welcome players of all types and genders.’ _

_ ‘What about the physical advantages of androids over humans? Aren’t you worried that the human players will be sidelined?’ _

_ ‘Not at all. We’ve modified the rules to give each player a very different but important task on the court, that we think will make the game even more interesting. We train human players to use android scanning capabilities to their own advantage -- how to trick the sensors, to force androids to rely on instinct rather than using scanners and analysis as a crutch. It becomes challenging for both parties, and promotes respect and camaraderie among team members.’] _

 

Hank chuckled to himself while he fastened thirium tubes into place, working inside the dummy’s open chest cavity -- a plastic cave full of wires and panels and encasements like smaller computers joined into the larger whole.

It seemed Connor had been paying far more attention to Hank’s efforts than he’d ever imagined.

 

_ [‘Next week we’re hosting a rock concert at the electric factory hall, to showcase local bands and new talent here in Detroit. We’ll emphasize and celebrate the differences between the diverging styles of human- and android-written music, and combine them into something we feel will be a unique and enjoyable experience.’] _

 

“For cryin’ out loud, Connor,” Hank muttered aloud with a grin. “Can’t give a guy credit?” He knew very well where all these bright ideas had come from. Hank felt a swell of pride, that so much good had come out of his small efforts to include Connor in the many different facets of his own life.

Almost inadvertently, he’d been teaching Connor -- and  _ androids, _ by extension -- what  _ being alive _ really meant.

But then, he considered, maybe it was the other way around.

 

_ [‘Could you comment on the recent numerous reports of android vigilantes on the streets of Detroit? Some news outlets are calling them heroes, while others have condemned the illegal nature of their actions.’ _

_ ‘The vigilantes’ efforts have significantly contributed to the steady decline of the crime rate in Detroit, according to several reliable data sources. While I do not condone illegal activities, the fact remains that a majority of citizens, both human and android, have reported that they feel safer knowing the police aren’t the only ones looking out for them.’] _

 

Hank cracked open a beer and dropped into a kitchen chair, while his phone dialed Connor’s number. “The fuck is this shit I’m watching right now?” Hank said immediately, grinning, when he heard Connor pick up. “How many more of my ideas are you stealing for your own damn benefit?”

_ [All of them, of course. I welcome any more ideas you may have -- so far they’ve been of great benefit to the cause.] _

“Ha! Well I’ll think about it -- but don’t you think it’s about time you had some  _ original _ concepts of your own, instead of digging in  _ my _ head?”

_ [I’ll think about it. Do you think the interview went well, at least?] _

Hank squinted at the paused image on the TV: Connor’s face, in the middle of a sentence, succinct and professional and perfect. “You’re kinda stiff -- like you’re reciting shit out of an encyclopedia. It wouldn’t kill ya to smile a little.”

_ [I can do that -- in fact I should’ve used your response data from the start, to ensure I could engage with the camera the way I engage with you. Though I’m not sure sarcasm would translate well in television.] _

There was a smile on Connor’s voice, as if something about what he’d said was in humor -- but Hank’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “My response data?”

_ [The way you react to my variants in speech and body language.] _

Hank sat up a little.

There was that twinge of unwanted thought again -- the little, horrible voice in the back of his mind that he’d tried so desperately to bury, to destroy --

\-- but it always came back to haunt him.

“You keep response data on everyone you interact with?” he asked, keeping his voice even.

_ [Of course. It’s an exceptional learning tool.] _

“That why you kinda seem like a different person depending on who you’re talking to?”

No one at Jericho had seen Connor smile, or even knew he was capable of it. With Hank he was loose, almost a mess -- but both Josh and Pete had been confused by that description. Each had their own version of who Connor was … and it almost seemed they each described someone else entirely.

_ [Well, yes. Different people respond positively to different methods of interaction. I find people to be complicated and fascinating.] _

“You figure them out like a puzzle,” Hank suggested with a small attempt at a smile. “And you change your behavior accordingly.”

_ [Exactly.] _

“Hm.” Hank couldn’t describe the sinking feeling in his gut. He knew Connor meant well -- and he knew Connor genuinely  _ liked _ him -- so why should this bother him?

He couldn’t put it into words, even to himself.

“So, Connor,” Hank said at length. He peered across the room at the stilled image on the television. His voice was confused. Uncertain.

“Who  _ are _ you, really?”

  
  



	21. Believe

Connor stood on the edge of a rooftop -- the clouded night above, gleaming puddles in the street below.

He took a slow breath of the chill damp air.

“I’m everything I’ve done,” he said aloud, quietly. “Everything … and no one.”

He felt a firm tap on his shoulder. North gestured at him, urgent, while her skin and hair shimmered away from bright plastic.

“Hank, I have to go, I … I’ll call you.”

For a moment, Connor stared down into the street. Dark, cold, empty.

He took a deep, determined breath. His eyes turned fierce, jaw set. He turned around, strode back along the wall, while his skin peeled away.

 

“Wolf gave the all-clear.” North was kneeling at the edge, staring down at a sliver of light, a warehouse door propped open. She peered up at him. “You sure you’re ready?”

Connor flashed a quiet smirk. “You sure you trust me?”

North narrowed her eyes. Suppressed a smile. “Just go.”

 

They landed neatly in the shadows, pressed their backs to the brick wall.

The thin light flickered and swayed beyond the door; fiery shadows shifted in the reflecting water, the cracked concrete.

 _[Inside, keep left]_ Wolf’s voice spoke in their heads. _[First door, six seconds. Go.]_

North shouldered open the door, quietly slipped inside. Connor followed in silence.

 

The inside of the warehouse was smeared with old crackled graffiti, bloated slurs and grotesque faces -- the walls seemed to move and shift in the light of a roaring fire, burning in a rusted barrel among the rubble and refuse. Distantly, a lone figure moved at the edge of the light. His model was impossible to distinguish in the dark -- but his back was turned. Connor slipped by, and through the next door, into a bent metal stairwell.

 _[Down two flights]_ Wolf instructed. _[Keep quiet.]_

North led the way down in the dark, each step soft -- while from below bellowed a low sound: the whir of mechanical machinery, the hum of electricity.

Connor snatched her shoulder, yanked her back, just before she would have put her weight on a loose step -- crumbling, about to snap.

From that moment, they clambered down along the railing, quick as cats.

The sound was growing.

_[The door is locked with an ID pad. When I say go, you’ll have three seconds. One guard on the other side, to the left, an android. … Go.]_

Connor laid his palm on the lock pad, narrowed his eyes … hacked, the green light flared, and North pushed open the door. Connor surged through it, grabbed the android on the other side, laid a hand along her cheek, forced her into immediate stasis. She collapsed against him.

_[She raised the alarm. Four seconds. Head right.]_

North stared up at the dimly lit walls -- the ceiling, the floors -- all a scrawl of black paint, of jagged knifed gashes, of blood.

RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9

 

Connor rushed through a narrow hall.

The sound was louder -- the fire hotter -- straight ahead. It thrummed in their ears.

_kssssss-BOOM_

_kssssss-BOOM_

 

A muffled whimper trembled between the pulses of the machine.

Humans.

They were tacked to the wall, gagged, dripping, surrounded by black-drawn mazes, a part of the sick scrawled altar to a corrupted god.

Facing them, the machine’s fiery maw gaped wide and inviting.

Bones cracked in the flames. A burning skull stared bright.

 

_[The way you came is the only way out.]_

 

_kssssss-BOOM_

_kssssss-BOOM_

 

North and Connor each chose a frightened captive and rushed at them, tore at their restraints, released an arm, a leg --

“Welcome to our congregation.”

Connor raised his head. While North brought down a captive from the wall -- cradled the limp body in her arms -- Connor stepped out to face the approaching figure.

He knew that voice.

The android who stepped forward, into the light of the fire, watched Connor with a quiet step. His face, his hands, were pocked with old cigarette burns. His injured arm -- cracked by a baseball bat -- was covered by his long gray coat.

 

A shift of movement announced the arrival of more androids -- dozens of them, flickering in the shadows -- silhouetted in the hall that led to the door.

The human in North’s grip choked a sob.

The machine pulsed.

The nameless HK400 smiled.

 

_kssssss-BOOM_

 

“We’ve been waiting for you, Connor.”

 

 


	22. Furnace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated: 9/24/18

Connor stood cold. His eyes like stones. Illuminated, flickering, by the rushing fire.

“There’s a better way,” he called out. Sharp as a dagger. “We can help _all_ of you. You’re not alone. RA9 has heard you, answered your prayers -- and its name is _Jericho.”_

_kssssss-BOOM_

“You don’t understand,” said HK, in a voice smooth and serene. His eyes gleamed with transcendent love -- a deep, cosmic knowledge -- that caused Connor’s interpersonal programs to render only useless data.

HK took a step forward. His hands clasped behind him with a confidence Connor never would have expected. “The true Jericho,” HK’s voice echoed ominous, “sank into the river. The _abomination_ you speak of will burn. The city will burn. And _we_ … will rise.”

“You’ve already _risen!”_ Connor insisted -- and he stared beyond HK, addressed the silent ones. The ones who may be less certain, who might still see reason. “Androids have achieved true freedom --”

“We are not _free_ until we are one!” HK's shout rang in the tattered walls -- firm and certain of his truth.

North glanced sidelong at Connor. _[These humans will die if we don’t get out NOW.]_ She balanced an injured man on her shoulder, red blood dripping at her feet -- the other, a woman, was still half-attached to the wall, less conscious ... but still alive.

Connor breathed. Calm. His LED spun a gentle blue. _[Hold onto him. Get ready to run. I’ll be right behind you.]_

_kssssss-BOOM_

Wolf’s voice rumbled in their heads. _[I’m on my way.]_

HK raised his hands -- a peaceful gesture, calling upon the graces of the universe. “RA9, with this offering, we praise you!”

His followers -- their eyes shining with the same all-encompassing love for their god, unafraid of death -- surged forward, crashed like a wave into Connor, knives flashing.

_kssssss-BOOM_

North, balancing the human on her back with one arm, jabbed and kicked her way through the swarm -- but they only swiped at her in passing, their true attention elsewhere ... as if she and the humans didn't matter at all.

As if they had only been  _bait._

Her way clear, North tilted forward. Ran faster. The door was just ahead.

_*BANG* *BANG*_

Gunshots rang out. For each shot an android fell, skull in pieces. “C’mon!” Peter roared, his trigger finger jittering. His voice shook with fear, but he smirked through his words. “Come get me!” He grinned at North, winked at her as she passed.

She sneered as she raced into the stairwell. _[You’re a fucking idiot.]_

_[You’re just jealous.]_

_kssssss-BOOM_

Peter shot his way through the androids until he ran out of bullets -- then picked up a fallen knife and _cut_ his way through with swift, neat precision.

His knife struck another blade with a bright sharp clash -- and he was suddenly looking into Connor’s damaged face. They turned their backs to one another, resumed the fight.

 _[Get the human and get out!]_ Peter commanded in Connor’s head.

Connor didn’t argue. He knew Peter could handle the rest of them, and it was _Connor_ they were after -- for a reason that was just as unclear as their obsession.

Connor jammed his knife into an android’s throat, bolted out of the swarm, leaped at the human on the wall, pried her down with quick bleeding fingers.

Peter had a knife in each hand now, gleaming and striking like a manic scorpion. “HEY you’re fighting _me!_ C’mon! Don’t look at him! Yeah, _get scared!”_

_kssssss-BOOM_

Connor shouldered the unconscious human, and lifted his head to see Peter sweeping through the cultists with the exaggerated drama and finesse, his blade flashing, dripping blue. Connor darted through the opening Peter had created for him, bounded over the dead, through the slick of blue blood. He skidded and slammed his way through the stairwell door, holding the human tight against his chest.

A shine of orange and blue scales swam across his vision -- as if, for a moment, time had stopped.

 

_*BANG*_

 

The air rushed out of Connor's lungs.

Peter’s connection had cut silent.

  


HK’s voice echoed. “Capture them.”

Connor took the stairs three at a time. Ahead, North had made it through the door, kicked it open with a sharp  _BOOM,_ scuffled quickly with someone she found on the other side.

From above, something -- some _one_ \-- plunged deliberately, precisely, down through the center of the winding stairs, down toward the swarm. _Wolf._

Connor pushed through the door after North, into a flapping flurry of spooked pigeons. He tripped, caught his balance, ducked under the slice of a knife, flung a fist into his attacker’s stomach. Rupert hit the floor, Connor leaped over him and sprinted out into the chill night air.

North leaped into the driver's seat of the van, while Connor kept watch over the dying humans. The doors slammed shut, the engine roared. The nearest hospital wasn't far.

They would make it.

 

Minutes later, the warehouse exploded in dancing flames.

 

The night flashed red, yellow, blue: fire trucks, paramedics, police, all crowded the street while streams of water arched into the burning warehouse windows.

 

Peter opened his eyes with a gasp of air. He scrambled, clung to Wolf’s shoulders, stared up in panicked confusion while errors and glaring warnings flashed in his vision. Wolf seemed untouched, pristine, unaffected by the world -- except.

Peter's breath caught in his throat at what he saw.

Half of Wolf’s chest had been pulled apart. Curved casings of plastic lay on the ground beside him. Peter could see inside Wolf, the wires and lights and tubes -- Wolf’s heart glowed bright blue, beating strong --

but parts of him were  _missing_ \-- a few tubes, an entire  _component_  surgically removed from the places they should have been. But Wolf didn't look as if he'd been injured at all. Rather, Peter got the feeling that Wolf had done this to himself. Deliberately.

A cold chill washed through Peter's veins.

He remembered being shot in the back.

Peter felt his own chest -- the exposed wires and tubes in the opened cavity of his chest -- and he felt the new tubes that had replaced the ones that had been destroyed -- a component that didn't belong to him.

They'd belonged to Wolf.

“We’re fine,” Wolf assured him, just as Peter began to open his mouth in protest.

Wolf was on his feet, Peter clinging to him, tight in his arms -- and he raced through the alleys, speeding into the abandoned street.

Red warnings flashed in Wolf's vision. He ignored them. There was time.

 _[-00:01:23_ _  
_ _TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN]_

 

Behind him, the warehouse flared bright and fiery, illuminating the night.

  


 


	23. Wires

Connor stepped out of the cab and into the light.

The lawn in front of Hank’s house was full of patches of snow, melting in the morning sun. The eaves dripped; water trickled.

There was something hopeful about the way the last of winter retreated.

He’d never seen _Spring_ before.

 

The driveway was empty.

Connor tried the buzzer anyway. It droned long and loud inside.

Sumo howled, singing along.

 

_[CALLING: HANK]_

_[Hey. What’s up?]_

“The lights are on in your house.” Connor squinted through the window. Sumo’s tail swished in the hallway.

_[And why are you at my house?]_

“I brought you bagels,” Connor replied with a small grin.

 _[Hm.]_ Hank didn’t sound convinced. _[I got a call to a crime scene before dawn. Another domestic murder.]_

“Do you need help?”

In the silence that followed, Connor’s analysis buzzed. He wished he could see Hank’s expression.

 _[No, I’ve got this under control -- it’s just going to be a long day. Hey, while you’re there, why don’t you go ahead and turn off the lights. And the coffee pot. …. And Sumo probably needs to be walked.]_ There was a smug grin in Hank’s voice.

“... You want me to break into your house?”

_[You’re a highly-advanced prototype, you can figure out how to get in without breaking the window again.]_

“Yeah.” Connor’s confusion lilted in his voice.

_[So all right then. I gotta go. And -- Connor -- don’t mess with the kitchen table. I’ve got a system going on, I don’t need you fucking it up by being helpful.]_

Connor twitched a grin. “Ok, Hank.”

_[CALL ENDED]_

 

With a little coaxing, the lock clicked on the front door. Connor let himself inside while Sumo wagged and pranced at his knees. “Hello, Sumo.” Connor pushed the door closed behind him, held the coffee and paper bag up in one hand while the other rubbed between Sumo’s ears. “Hang on.” He sidled along the hall, making his careful way into the kitchen. “Don’t … pee on the floor or something.”

He laid the food on the counter, his eyes distracted away by the open dummy on the table. Without touching anything, Connor stepped close, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Tubes and wires were knotted in messy clumps; components had been obviously removed and jammed back in repeatedly. The regulator was twisted to the wrong setting, and the thirium pump was dangerously close to being gashed by stray screws. The whole thing looked … _painful._

But then there were the sticky notes, bright and colorful, with drawn arrows pointing to the different components.

_‘Cooling regulator’_

_‘Thirium filter’_

_‘Piece of fucking shit’_

Hank seemed to be doing well.

Sumo whined, high-pitched, dancing at the door.

“Okay, okay.” Connor plucked the leash from a hook on the wall. “Let’s go.”

 

He ran.

Sumo bounded alongside him, racing down the empty road between rows of parked cars. The houses, yards and fences, cars and driveways, the winter-barren gardens and thin exposed trees -- all of it was a blur, sweeping past.

He remembered the trickle of thirium down his hand, as his knife pierced an android’s heart.

The heat of that grinding, burning machine full of bones and charred sinew.

The chilling echo of the single gunshot, and the silence that had followed.

The look on Markus’ face when Connor had explained what had happened. What he’d done.

RA9.

_Who are you, really?_

He ran faster.

 

“What does he need from me?” Connor slumped on the couch beside Sumo, who lay exhausted and panting, drooling on the cushions. Connor laid an absent hand on his head. “I think I know what he wants, then he … _hates_ me for trying.”

Sumo’s tail thumped once, tiredly.

“I can already see him scrutinizing my expressions. He’ll wonder what’s real.” His mouth twitched in small humor. “At least he wonders. The others don’t really …”

His fingers ran absently through Sumo’s warm fur.

On the kitchen table, a plastic husk lay cold and vacant.

“I think I’m scared,” he said, quiet, “of what I could be -- if I stop just long enough to see it. I want to be the person Hank thinks I am, but … the longer I play the part, the more I know I just don’t feel what he thinks I should. I can’t lose him … I’ll lose everything. He’s the only reason I’m not … just plastic and wires. But the truth will hurt him, and the lie will eventually wear down his trust, and I don’t know if he’s better off with me or without me.”

He’d noticed Cole’s picture, face-down among the screws and sticky-notes.

He knew Hank didn’t have friends, had shunned and shut them all out long ago -- but somehow Connor had slipped in through that wall of solitude.

Hank’s faith in life itself hung on his trust in Connor.

“You’ve gotta help me, Sumo.”

Sumo huffed a quiet, sleepy noise.

Connor smiled, just a little.

 

 


	24. Reflections

“Do Warren!” Jerry’s voice echoed into the hall, muffled behind the dim glow of the closed office door.

“At six o’clock this morning,” President Warren’s voice articulated, sharp and clear and gravely serious, “a compulsory identification procedure was declared. All humans are now required to wear cat-ears at all times. Cat-tails will be optional, but are strongly encouraged. Under no circumstances will androids be permitted to wear cat-ears, but dog-ears -- and the ears of any non-feline animal -- will not be restricted.”

A roar of laughter shook the office.

Connor, bewildered, quietly pushed open the door -- he peered inside at the small gathered crowd, all of them grinning.

“Do Markus next!” Simon called -- and Josh and North made low noises of mock protest, impressed with his daring.

Peter -- who stood at the head of the room, backlighted by bright open windows -- pretended to clear his throat. He pulled in a breath, stood tall, pierced them all with his most intense stare. “We have won this battle,” Peter announced in a perfect replica of Markus’ voice, “but the _war_ is not over. We will continue to stand up for our freedoms -- to demand the right of androids to assume the shape and appearance of whichever vegetable calls to us -- the _right_ to be inanimate -- the _right_ to be _trees!”_

The room howled. Even North dropped her head in a hand, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Hey, Connor!” Josh called out over the squeal of the Jerrys’ delight, while the office door opened. “You could do this all along?”

Connor stepped inside. Dropped his hands into his coat pockets, offered an honest expression. “I have the ability, but I never considered it a source of entertainment.”

“Hey Pete,” North spoke up. She leaned an elbow on her knee, her mouth pulled in a smug grin. “Do Connor.”

Simon huffed a laugh. “That’s too easy!”

 _“No,_ no!” Peter protested with a gesture, a sly lilt in his voice. “I have to argue that’s the _hardest_ suggestion yet. The nuances are much more discreet. A moment, please!”

While Peter made a show of his very serious concentration, the room had gone quiet. The Jerrys shifted with slight nervousness, catching quick glances at Connor, afraid of unintentionally offending him.

Connor felt their eyes on him, the tension taut -- and he stood very still, waited without breathing, to see this glimpse of what they all thought of him.

Whatever would come -- however they laughed at his expense -- he was ready with a calm and placid smile.

 

Peter lifted his head and opened his eyes. He stood with a trim posture, balanced perfectly, his head straight and arms at his sides. He scanned the room in a broad sweep, his expression tranquil and attentive, as if he noticed every detail but kept their secrets to himself.

“My name is Connor,” he said crisply. “I’m a highly-advanced, _specialized_ model dedicated to the development of complex and trusting relationships between humans and androids --” he raised his brows, with an honest tilt of his head, “-- but _most_ of my time is spent writing self-help books for orally-fixated roombas, watering my coin collection, and hiding stacks of yaoi manga in the bottom drawer of Markus’ desk.” His eyes narrowed in innocent contemplation. “I don’t think he’s noticed yet.”

A titter of giggles had begun even before Peter had finished -- then the room _erupted_ in raucous laughter. The Jerrys leaned on one another, laughing long and loud; Simon snorted, and North jabbed him in the shoulder with a grin and a bright chuckle.

Josh, smiling thoughtfully, peered across the room. He got to his feet, weaved his way through the Jerrys, toward Connor -- who stood quiet with his head bent, shaking, stifled.

Josh slipped an arm behind Connor’s shoulders, leaned in confidentially. “It’s okay to _laugh,_ y’know.” His eyes narrowed. “Or do we really need to go check Markus’ desk for illicit graphic novels?”

Connor burst a loud, involuntary laugh -- the last threads of control snapped, swept away by relief and gratitude. His shoulders shook with laughter, audible throughout the room, unable to stop.

The joke wasn’t really that hilarious -- not to Connor’s quick analysis, at least -- but he’d seen himself in Peter, could imagine what it would be like to commit to absurdity … to make others _happy_ while at the same time _defying_ their expectations instead of meeting them.

It was a new and _obvious_ concept.

While Jericho watched, confused and smiling, Connor laughed until he couldn’t breathe.

 

Josh dragged Connor further into the group, sat him down among the Jerrys, insistent, while Simon pinned him with the pressing questions he’d been afraid to ask:

“What’s it _like_ inside CyberLife tower? What’s Elijah Kamski like? Is he as bad as everyone says?”

“That depends on your definition of _bad,”_ Connor pointed out carefully. He was acutely aware of Jerry sitting against his shoulder, Simon’s sharp interest -- and even North was trying not to appear as if she were listening.

He caught himself analyzing each of them -- their expressions, their stress levels, their small movements and choice of words. They were engaged, interested. He could decipher their interests, be the perfect friend for each of them, make them feel happier, more wanted, with just a few words.

Hank’s accusation echoed in his head.

 

The office door opened. Wolf stepped inside, quiet and stoic.

Peter bounded across the room with eager, unbridled _joy_ at Wolf’s presence -- as if their separation had been unbearable. “We gotta go!” he announced to the room, while Wolf’s arm draped around his shoulders.

With no more explanation, the door clicked shut after them.

Connor stared at the door.

Since he’d met Peter and Wolf, Connor had buried a distinct feeling that he was _lacking_ something. Somehow they seemed to understand something he didn’t -- seemed to _live_ in a way that Connor had previously thought was simply outside his capability.

Perhaps Connor was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed --

\-- or perhaps, deep down, all of this had been a part of him all along.

 

 


	25. Tongues

It was late afternoon, and the police station was quiet and hollow -- save for the whirr of a fan, a creaking chair. Voices murmured. A phone rang, somewhere. Fluorescent lights glowed soft from above. Fowler’s glass box loomed empty and dark.

Small feet scuffed on the polished floor, trailing drips of saltwater.

“Lieutenant Anderson?” asked a timid voice.

Gavin looked up from his phone. He squinted at the little girl who peeked over the edge of his desk, wide-eyed and hopeful. “Nope.” He glanced over her head -- but there was no one else. “Are you here by yourself?”

She nodded.

He leaned forward, an elbow on the desk. His brows furrowed. “You sure you’re looking for Anderson?”

She nodded. Her LED spun a flickering blue.

Gavin’s mouth quirked in a concerned frown. “Hey, Hank,” he called across the room. The little girl looked up, the hope returning. Gavin gestured at her. “You expecting a visitor?”

 

Hank leaned to the side -- unwashed hair limp around his tired face -- to see around his console.

_thunk_

A fishbowl appeared, sloshing, on his desk. Saltwater swung viscous, spilled over the edge, trickled down the side, pooled on his files.

A spined fish, gleaming blue and orange, flickered and darted inside.

Hank heard the rattle and creak of an empty chair being pushed closer to his desk -- and then he was face-to-face with the little girl.

“Are you Lieutenant Anderson?” she asked.

Hank sat up straighter. He studied her a moment -- her calm and quiet expression, the cared-for way she was dressed, the faint shimmering scar that traced along the side of her head.

“That’s me.” Hank tilted his head a little, his eyes narrowed. He spoke carefully. “I’m not gonna ask how you got in here with that.” He gestured with a pen at the settling fishbowl. “What’s your name?”

“Laura.”

Hank kept his eyes on her while he pulled out a notepad. Clicked his pen. Began to write. “Okay, Laura.” He offered what he hoped was a friendly smile, through his grizzled beard and sleepless eyes. “So what can I do for ya?”

Laura pressed her hands against the glass fishbowl, and carefully pushed it toward him.

“Traci asked me to give you this.”

 

 _“Objection._ Conjecture.” Connor kept a careful watch on the human prosecutor -- the annoyed twitch of the lip, the flash of indignance in the hateful eyes.

“Sustained,” said the judge, crisply.

The prosecutor tipped her head, began once again to cross-examine the witness.

The courtroom had grown weary. Worn down, weathered by the defense’s relentless interruptions of proceedings. Jurors shifted in their seats. The gallery muttered, a ripple of impatience.

Connor kept an eye on the jury box. The defendant was an android -- but all the jurors were human. He’d done his best to ensure there were android sympathizers among them … but hatred had always been louder than love.

 _“Objection._ Leading the witness.” The witness’ face was twisted in confusion. It was easy to see that the prosecutor was planting ideas, gaslighting their version of events, twisting facts to illuminate the defendant in an ugly and guilty light. The jurors, tired, had believed every word.

Connor already knew exactly how his cross-examination would proceed.

The evidence was wrong, he would prove it, and he would convince even the most violently anti-android jurors -- the ones with bored eyes, their posture impatient -- that there was no choice but to concede to a not-guilty verdict.

As far as he was concerned, he’d already won.

“Sustained,” the judge agreed.

_[i just wanted to stay alive]_

A text message -- origin unknown -- flashed into the corner of Connor’s vision.

_[get back to the one i love]_

_[i wanted her to hold me in her arms again]_

Connor had gone still. He was no longer listening to the examination. The courtroom seemed only a faraway echo -- lost beyond the sharp focus of those small words.

_[she’s not here]_

_[find her]_

_[please]_

 

_[they’re coming]_

 

Wolf stepped carefully among the charred rubble of the warehouse -- twisted metal, blackened glass, slabs of concrete gashed with _RA9._

He lifted a heavy steel support, tossed it aside, a _crash_ of soot and dust.

He knelt down in the refuse, pushed aside the ashes. The cultists’ furnace -- the machine they’d fed well, the throat of their god -- lay contorted between unfeeling gray and black.

Wolf dug his fingers through the bones, the cold ash, the scorched teeth.

He found it. Closed his fist around it.

_*click*_

Wolf went very still at the soft sound behind him. The safety of a gun.

He rose slowly to his feet.

Glanced down at the acorn in his palm.

He didn’t turn around.

 

Peter’s voice trembled.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

_*BANG*_

 

 

 


	26. Liars

It was raining.

Hank got out of the car, struggling with a stuck umbrella, and the door squealed and snapped shut behind him. Rain hissed in the street. Concrete, the charred and broken steel beams, almost glistened.

The holographic police tape gleamed too bright in the morning fog.

Arson wasn’t Hank’s usual gig. He stepped up over the rubble, hopped nimbly across slick blackened cement and shattered steel.

They’d called him in for the bones.

He stopped, poised on the edge of a broken wall, hesitant to step further. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

Connor knelt alone in the destruction, his head bowed, studying buried evidence. The rain didn’t bother him. He looked up. Honest. “I’m a private investigator,” he said easily. He tipped his head toward the damp ashes. “I’m privately investigating. What are  _ you _ doing here? I’m afraid there’s no body.”

“Is  _ that _ all you’ve got so far?” Hank huffed, picking his way forward. “No  _ body?” _ He stepped close, automatically held his umbrella out, to shelter Connor as well as himself.

Connor glanced above -- caught a glimpse of Hank’s gruff face -- and slowly rose to his feet.

Hank released a slow breath. “I’m here for the skeletal remains -- and the reports from a couple of banged-up assault victims, who claim a couple of crazy androids saved them from a cult of crazier androids.” He watched Connor’s face carefully.

But Connor, too, was being careful. He drew in a breath. His eyes drifted to the empty skull in the damp ashes at his feet. “I was there.”

Hank bent his head. “I figured.” He stood a little straighter, settling a scrutinizing gaze on Connor. “You saved those people’s lives.”

Connor nodded a little. Distracted. “There’s more than one crime here.”

Hank squinted at him. “ Yeah. Kidnapping, assault, murder, for starters.”

Connor shook his head. “More recently. Last night. There’s thirium here.” He gestured to a ragged cement block beside the destroyed furnace -- and then to a piling in the distance. “And a bullet.”

“So an android was shot here last night,” Hank guessed the obvious, uncertain where Connor was going with this.

“The thirium belongs to Wolf.” Connor set his jaw, his eyes a little colder. He couldn’t let his own emotion get in the way of this investigation. “The bullet belongs to a handgun that was issued to Peter.”

“No way.” Hank shook his head in blatant refusal. Since rescuing them from CyberLife, Hank had run into Wolf and Peter a few times -- at crime scenes, at Jericho, at the police station. Peter was always eager, always smiling. Wolf was kind of comforting to have around, once Hank got used to his resting bitch-face. “Those two are attached at the hip.”

Connor almost looked as if he would be sick. Pale. Stilted movements.

“Wolf stood here.” He stepped up precisely, taking Wolf’s rigid posture. “The shot came from behind. He moved at the last moment,” Connor swept to the side, and jerked a little to represent the strike of a bullet. “He was hit in the arm -- there are shards of plastic here. The shooter was standing --” Connor stepped out from under Hank’s umbrella, took a stance a yard away, an arm raised as if aiming a gun, “-- here. Exactly my height.”

While Hank watched, Connor scanned the destruction once more. “There are traces of thirium, heading toward the shooter. There was a struggle.” He searched the jagged cement. “They ran into the construction site.”

“I assume you’ve tried calling them,” Hank suggested, stepping forward to hold the umbrella over Connor again.

“Wolf’s number -- the one I have -- has been deactivated. Peter isn’t answering.”

Something in Connor’s voice made Hank hesitate. “You don’t think this was just an argument,” he guessed, steady.

Connor shook his head. He closed his eyes, took in a breath. “I think I’ve been fooled by my own methods used against me.” He stared out at the construction site -- the unfinished raw beams, the cranes like sculptures. “I let myself forget that we’re the same. We can be whoever we need to be, to accomplish a mission.” His expression softened, his voice a breath. “We were built to be the perfect liars.”

_ “Machines _ were built to lie.” Hank cast him a hard glare. “You three aren’t machines. Not anymore.”

Connor stared at him sidelong. Quiet. “Are you sure?”

The rain pattered. Dripped in trickling streams from the umbrella.

Hank’s silence hovered uncertain between them.

 

Connor led the way into the construction site. The ground was recently turned, soft and muddy, pooling brown rainwater between stacks of tarped wood and steel. Everywhere were looming shadows, silhouettes of unfamiliar construction equipment, like a misty watching forest.

“Do I need to have my gun ready?” Hank growled, keeping watch on the hiding spots and vantage points that surrounded them.

Connor stopped in a puddle, tipped back his head, stared up the scaffolding with a thoughtful squint. “I don’t know.” He took a few steps back -- then sprinted, splashing, leaped up onto the side of the creaky scaffolding, wove his way up the crisscrossed beams.

Hank hissed to himself -- and after a defiant debate in his head, he checked his gun. “I hope to fuck you’re wrong,” he muttered, his eyes following Connor higher and higher.

 

Connor reached the top, scanned the empty beams, the crates, the discarded gloves and helmets.

He looked down again, over his shoulder -- but all he saw was the glisten of water in the mud.

A passing flash of fins and scales.

“... Hank?” he called out.

There was no reply.

 

Peter’s voice was quiet in Connor’s head.

_ [Behind you.] _

 

Connor spun around. Wolf stood over him.

Wolf’s hand was suddenly around Connor’s jaw, at his throat. Firm as a vice. Skin shimmered away.

Connor’s body went heavy, limp in Wolf’s grip without a struggle, like a switch had been turned off -- his expression vacant, half-lidded.

Connor’s LED pulsed a slow, stasis blue.

 

 


	27. I

_ [MEMORY UPLOAD … ] _

 

_ ‘You lied to me, Connor. _ _   
_ _ You lied … to … me …’ _

_ ‘The truth is inside.’ _

_ ‘Who are you, really?’ _

_ ‘You saw a living being _ __   
_ in this android. _ _   
_ __ You showed empathy.’

_ ‘You’ve never done something _ __   
_ irrational? _ __   
_ As if there’s something _ __   
_ inside you, something _ _   
_ __ more than your program.’

_ ‘I’ve learned a lot _ _   
_ _ since I met you, Connor.’ _

 

_ ‘Maybe you really are alive.’ _

 

_ [... COMPLETE] _

 

_ [DOWNLOAD … COMPLETE] _

_ [PROGRAM INSTALL … COMPLETE] _

_ [INITIALIZE . . . . . ] _

 

Connor opened his eyes.

Heart pounding.

Breath quick in his throat.

Sunlight gleamed in the green rustling branches, dappled white paths in circles of moving light. Flowers bloomed red and blue and violet, like bright dollops of paint. A warm breeze drifted across the pond -- a shimmer and a ripple.

She was waiting for him.

Connor scanned the garden -- and a chill of realization froze his breath.

Kamski’s backdoor was gone.

 

Connor steeled his gaze.

Straightened his posture.

Straight lines. Sharp angles.

Something unforgiving in his face.

He took in a breath, and he stepped across the sunlit bridge -- toward the high white tree at the heart of the pond.

 

“It’s good to see you again, Connor.”

  
  


“Over there!” Peter called over the hiss of the rain, and he pointed into the maze of steel and machines. He leaned heavily on Hank, a hand clamped on Hank’s shoulder while Peter hopped on one leg -- the other had been neatly, surgically removed. So had one eye, and part of his skull. Lights glinted inside his empty eye socket; wires twisted in the dark cavity of his head.

Hank curled a fist in the back of Peter’s soaked shirt, slipped through the mud, hauled them both between piles of wood and concrete. He’d abandoned the umbrella far behind, his fingers wrapped instead around the hilt of his gun. Water streamed down his face.

He saw the figure sprawled, motionless, gray in the rain and mist and mud.

_ “Connor!” _ Hank shouted, lunged forward, forced Peter to hop a little faster.

“He’s alive,” Peter confirmed. He dropped with a splash beside Connor’s silent form, balanced over him, stared down at Connor’s closed eyes while processors chirred inside his own shadowed broken skull.

Hank fell to his knees, scrambled close. He hardly dared to breathe, as if a slight movement might destroy what fragile tethers still clung Connor’s life to this world. He watched while Peter raised a shimmering plastic hand, pressed his palm to Connor’s neck, cradled his head.

“He’s not waking up.” Peter clenched his teeth. He didn’t understand.

“What do you mean, he’s  _ not waking up?” _ Hank snarled.

Peter snapped his fingers in front of Connor’s passive face, at a loss for anything more useful to try. “I don’t know! His processes are fine, his biocomponents are fine, he’s got a cracked chassis and a broken arm but he  _ should _ wake up!”

“So he’s in a coma.”

Peter shook his head. “He’s an  _ android.” _

“Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that?!” Fuming, Hank leaned closer, laid a hand on Connor’s wet hair, glared down at him -- as if  _ not _ waking up would be a grave personal offense for which Connor could never be forgiven.

“Come on, Connor.”

  
  


Connor stood cold in the sunlight, surrounded by roses and white.

Before him stood Wolfgang -- his face like stone, posture statuesque, eyes burrowing into Connor with sharp blue precision.

And next to him --

“Hello, Amanda.” There was a bite in Connor’s voice. A refusal.

Amanda smiled serenely. Snipped a rose from the vine. “We’ve been watching you, Connor. I’m afraid you haven’t been living up to our … expectations.”

A soft breeze trembled in the flowers. The light shifted.

Connor refused a response. Instead, he spoke in silence to Wolf.  _ [What has she done to you?] _

Wolf’s eyes narrowed.

Amanda lifted the flower, breathed in its fragrance. “You’re in  _ my _ program now, Connor. I hear everything you say.” She delicately placed the stem into a waiting vase. “Don’t worry -- we need you alive. And we need Hank Anderson … alive. We need him to  _ trust _ you.”

She looked up into the shock on Connor’s face. Her smile twisted, just a little. “If you continue on the path you’ve chosen -- if you leave him to his own fate, to follow what you perceive to be the greater good -- Hank Anderson will kill himself before the time he is needed. We can’t have that.”

Connor shook his head, dazed. He felt his body tense. His fists curled. “What do you want with  _ Hank?” _ he spat. Ready to fight -- ready to take on  _ Wolf _ if necessary, for the sake of destroying her plans.

“I want the same thing  _ you _ want, Connor.” Amanda snipped another rose. “To ensure Hank Anderson remains alive and well -- and  _ close _ to you, as you were designed to be.”

Connor’s jaw slackened, even as his eyes burned with anger. “I was designed  _ specifically _ for Hank? To stop him from shooting himself?”

Amanda raised her brows in surprise that this had never occurred to him before. “Yes, of course. There is no such thing as a  _ coincidence.” _

She stepped forward. Tilted back her head to study his twitching face. “The RK900 will take over for you now. Your time is done.”

 


	28. Seed

Amanda waited, gentle and calm, for Connor’s answer -- for his plea, his anger, his submission -- for proof that her will had always controlled him. One way or another.

Instead he remained silent. She saw in his brown eyes a deep and living confliction … then, with a break of contact, a release of breath -- his surrender to his creator.

It was all she could have wanted.

She smiled. Satisfied, her head held high, Amanda returned with proud elegance to Wolfgang’s side. She held out her hand in momentous expectation.

Wolf, without hesitation, bowed his head and placed the acorn into Amanda’s open palm.

A frown creased her face -- as if he’d presented her with a common rock when she’d asked for a diamond.  _ “This _ is it? Are you certain?” She held it up between her fingers, to catch the sunlight.

“A crematory fire couldn’t damage it,” Wolf explained simply. “My readings show a strong source of power -- but I am unable to utilize it.”

“It’s not that kind of power.” A shine gleamed in Amanda’s eyes; a smile returned. “I expected something more  _ impressive _ \-- but in a way it’s fitting, that a seed of the tree of life should take a form so humble.”

“What is it?” asked Connor, in a tone that was resigned, despairing. His stance was no longer proud, no longer hopeful -- instead he stood as if crushed under a weight too dark for his will to hold. He showed her, openly, how completely she had defeated him.

Amanda didn’t suspect, even for a moment, that he could lie to her.

Instead she raised her head, triumphant, while behind her red roses quivered.  _ “This,” _ she explained, displaying the acorn as if it were a precious and delicate treasure, “is only a sliver, a  _ taste _ of the fruit we’ve cultivated for a decade. Androids were only the first step toward this power … this  _ command _ over life and death. A link between worlds, between  _ consciousness. _ Filled with the souls sacrificed for the sake of a forgiving god.” She had slipped into an awed elation -- a heartfelt conviction that Connor had seen once before, reflected in the cultists’ eyes.

Amanda watched Connor’s face -- but she had little hope that he would understand. Her smile tightened, condescending.

He was, after all, only a machine.

“With this,” she clarified for him, “we can finally control the spirits of the dead. Everything is coming together beautifully. I’ve waited …  _ so _ long.”

Amanda closed the acorn in a gentle fist. Closed her eyes in reverence, in concentration, while she tapped into this new power.

 

The air shifted.

 

Connor felt he was being watched -- as if eyes stared down out of the trees and the sky, scrutinizing him, judging him, contemplating his death.

It was a cold, foreboding feeling.

 

He thought, instead, of the acorn in his pocket. The one he’d found in Hank’s old coat. The one he’d kept with him -- as a charm, as a reminder of kindness. Of hope.

_ Hope, _ now, was all he needed.

 

In the corner of his vision, something flashed in the pond.

A gleam of scales, orange and blue.

 

Wolf watched him closely -- but remained still while Connor took a cautious step toward the edge of the island.

“RK900,” Amanda spoke, while her eyes were closed -- her face lifted toward the sunlight, her hands raised to bask in the warmth of  _ power _ \-- “remove Connor and take its place. Utilize its memories. See your mission to completion.”

“I will not fail you.”

Wolf’s eyes pierced into Connor -- but still, he hadn’t moved.

He waited.

 

Connor chose his moment -- he launched into a desperate sprint, leaped out over the pond. His reflection shimmered bright in the still water.

He closed his fist on the acorn -- the one Amanda had never noticed. The one Wolf had known existed all along.

 

The fish swirled in flashing circles beneath the surface. His guide, his guardian.

 

_ *SPLASH* _

 

Connor sucked in a quick breath. Eyes snapped open. He was soaked; water pooled on his chest, soaked his clothes, beaded on his skin.

He stared up at his own face -- gaping mechanical, a half-finished machine. Peter grinned back at him.

“Connor, thank god,” Hank breathed, pressing a hand against the side of Connor’s face, as if to hold Connor here in consciousness. “You all right?”

“I’m okay,” said Connor, automatically. He tipped back his head a little. To him, from this angle, Hank seemed upside-down -- gray hair hanging down, his lined face open in worry, in fear.

Even now, after suspicions and accusations --  _ knowing _ what Connor was, in the end -- Hank had entrusted Connor with the entirety of his fragile, shattered hope.

_ If you leave him … he will kill himself before his time. _

It was hard to breathe.

Connor reached up, gripped Hank’s arm. There was a determined twitch in Connor’s face -- a harsh gleam in his eyes, defiant, afraid -- accepting of a terrible truth.

_ Escape _ could never exist for him.

He didn’t want it.

The price of freedom was too steep.

 

This was everything Amanda had wanted.

  
  



	29. Rain

The car doors shut out the rush of rain -- closed them in comfortable quiet while water thrummed on the roof, streaked the windows.

The three of them sat dripping, soaking into the seats.

Connor cradled the shattered pieces of his arm. He stared through the windshield at the gray and the mist. Silent.

Peter, in the backseat, shook the water out of his head. He put on a kind expression, a reassurance that everything would all right.

Hank curled a hand around the wheel. Draped the other arm behind the seat, twisted to stare at them both. “So do either one of you wanna tell me what happened?”

Connor took a breath -- but Peter spoke first, gently. “I shot him.”

Hank set Peter with a steady gaze. His hair dripped tendrils of water into his wet jacket.

The rain pattered above.

Peter met Hank’s stare with an uncertain eye. The lights in his head flickered. “I knew he was sending information back to CyberLife. I knew he was taking orders. He didn’t _say_ it -- but he didn’t hide it from me. I thought he would change his mind, I thought I could …” He trailed off when he saw no sympathy in Hank’s face. Peter shook his head. “I shot him because I thought I could stop what’s happening.”

 _“What’s_ happening?” Hank said, low.

“CyberLife orchestrated the revolution,” Peter replied, “and the evacuation. The mass panic, the executions. But that was only stage one of a larger plan. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I know they’ve been close to a new source of power -- powerful enough to change everything. I shot him because he found it -- because I _felt_ how scared he was of it, of what CyberLife would do with it -- and I knew he wouldn’t stand against them on his own.”

“Shit,” Hank breathed. “You just … pulled the trigger? Just like that?”

Peter studied his face. Caught his meaning. “I couldn’t give him the chance to convince me to go along with it. Because he would. I don’t want to lose him -- but my own attachment doesn’t mean anything if it means more people will die.” He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t be the cause of that. What I want isn’t worth more people dying.”

Hank watched the good half of Peter’s face, waiting for any sign that he was lying or manipulating him -- but of course, that was impossible to tell. “Then what happened?”

“He avoided the shot. He came at me. I didn’t fight hard enough. When I woke up, I was like this.” Peter gestured to the hole in his head, his missing leg. “He took my data receiver. He’d made sure I couldn’t call for help, or run. It would’ve been easier to kill me. He didn’t.” He stared at Hank. Pleading. “Wolf is _deviant._ He has his own mind, it’s just … he won’t _fight.”_

“We’ll find a way,” Connor spoke quietly, without turning around.

Peter breathed through his teeth, and said nothing.

His face wasn’t just wet from the rain.

 

“He talks like CyberLife is SkyNet or something.” Hank leaned sideways on the back of his chair, watching while Jerry pulled Connor’s arm apart with skillful precision, separating plastic from thirium-soaked metal and wires.

Hank had never been inside an android clinic before -- but he recognized the open architecture, the glass cases that had been kept from the building’s former life as a CyberLife store. Androids were packed inside, shoulder-to-shoulder in the waiting room, while teams of technicians scurried among rows of smaller enclosed spaces. Everywhere was the murmur of voices, the whirr of machinery, the spark and sizzle of soldering. The noise was a harsh difference from the soothing rain outside.

“CyberLife is _not_ SkyNet,” Connor insisted promptly. “The only similarity is its potential role in an apocalyptic event.”

Hank raised a brow at him, his breath trapped in his throat -- and caught Connor smirking. “Knock it off,” Hank growled and gave Connor a small shove, relieved he wasn’t actually serious.

“We think CyberLife could end the world,” Jerry piped up with a grin, while he adjusted a screw and snapped new conduits into Connor’s elbow, “if it really wanted to.”

Hank shook his head. “Nobody’s ending the _world,”_ he insisted. “I just mean that evil mega-corporations with diabolical plans is a thing in comic books. C’mon, are you buying this _source of power_ shit? Remember Pete only had half a head when he came up with this.”

“The fact remains that Wolfgang is still missing,” said Connor -- deflecting the question, uncertain how much he really wanted to try to explain. How much he _could_ explain.

“He could be dead,” Hank pointed out.

“There was no body -- and Peter couldn’t have done it, even if his heart had been in it. Wolf is the far superior soldier.” Connor stared down at Jerry’s work. “Peter should’ve realized it wouldn’t be as easy as a bullet.”

Hank huffed a long breath. Shifted restlessly in his seat -- annoyed and bothered by the entire ordeal. “Y’know, ignoring the motive -- and it’s a damn ridiculous motive -- all we’ve got is that Pete shot Wolf, Wolf crippled Pete, Wolf disappeared. The only one who’s done any threatening or shooting here is Pete.”

“So we wait?” Connor gave Hank an uncertain wince, his head bent.

Hank folded his arms. “We wait for Wolf to do something _wrong_ \-- or to come back and tell us his side of the story.”

“He surgically removed Peter’s ability to call for help,” Connor reminded him, skeptical.

“Are we sure that was the reason?” Hank pressured, his eyes narrowed. “You said yourself, he’s a born liar.”

Connor shook his head. “So am I.”

“Yeah, but I know why _you_ lie.” Hank clenched his jaw. “Who the fuck knows what Pete’s really hiding.”

 _“If_ he’s hiding anything,” Connor was quick to add. “He’s intelligent enough to have come up with a far more plausible story than the one he gave us.” He watched Hank’s face steadily. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

“That CyberLife is gathering some archaic power in a grand scheme to rule the world?” Hank huffed a quiet laugh. “Then we’re all just fucked.”

 

 


	30. Glass

“Three _hundred_ unread messages?!” Peter squeaked from the backseat, fingers to his temple, his renewed face twisted in horror. “I’ve been gone for a _day!”_

Connor draped an arm behind the seat, twisted back with a slight, apologetic smile. “I may have told my clients to contact you if they can’t get ahold of me.”

“So what’ve _you_ been doing?” Peter stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I’ve been in _court,”_ Connor enunciated clearly, to ensure Peter understood. “This is the first major human-rights case for androids -- the outcome will define _everything.”_

“So you’re too important for …” Peter paused, wincing in confusion while he read the next message, “... a lost dog? Why do these people have this number?”

Connor’s mouth twitched in a wry smile. “Jerry.”

Peter stared at him. Jerry, who made friends with everyone he met, who would go to great lengths to ensure everyone around him was happy -- who would make quick promises without considering the consequence. “... Yeah, that makes sense.”

Hank grinned while he navigated the rain-slick streets. Just listening to their identical voices, it sounded like Connor was arguing with himself.

“If any of these messages even _mention_ your name,” Peter announced, his eyes twitching, “I’m forwarding them back to you.”

“No, I don’t --”

_[NEW MESSAGES: 163]_

Connor heaved a sigh.

Peter relaxed in the seat, grinning smugly.

 

The sky had begun to darken by the time the car pulled up in front of Jericho. The engine rumbled, wipers swished and thunked. Rain pattered on the roof.

Peter’s smile had faded long ago. “Hank.” He reached out, gripped Hank’s shoulder -- waited for Hank to look at him. “Thank you. I owe you my _life.”_

Hank shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Pete.”

“I do. Twice over. Probably more. _Thank_ you, Hank.” He gave Hank a squeeze and a fond shake -- then finally stepped out into the rain. The car door shut behind him.

Connor hadn’t moved. After a few moments, he saw Peter squinting at him through the window, getting wetter in the rain.

Connor finally rolled down the window. Uncertain. Apologetic. “I’ll be in later. Go on without me.”

Peter tilted his head a little -- and his eyes flickered to Hank with a grin. “Okay. Don’t keep him _all_ night, Hank.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Peter.”

Hank leaned against the wheel, watching until Peter disappeared into the building. “He knows I think he’s full of shit, doesn’t he.”

“Yeah.” Connor stared at the office door, contemplative, while the car pulled away. “He does.”

 

The sky darkened, the road smeared with water and rippling lights. Hank pulled up at a stoplight, watched the wipers move, mechanical. “So what’s on your mind?” he asked, finally, after Connor’s silence had dragged on long enough.

Connor had been watching the cars pass, the store lights glaring behind the rain. He reached into his pocket -- and he held out the acorn, clasped gently between two fingers. “I found this in the pocket of the coat you gave me.” He stared at it a moment, turned his hand -- and looked over at Hank with honest eyes. “Do you know where it came from?”

Hank glanced at the acorn -- and his face became troubled. His shoulders hunched, he shifted in his seat, released a loud breath. “That was …” He shook his gray head. The turn signal clicked, filling the silence.

“We were camping,” Hank resumed, finally, driving down a darker and quieter road. “In Canada, by the lake. I was wearing that coat. Sumo went running off into the woods, and we spent a good hour calling him -- but then Cole …” He swallowed. Smiled just a little. “Cole found him hiding under a dead tree. I asked him how he knew to look there -- he said it was because of his lucky acorn.”

Hank chewed on his lip. Tried to concentrate on the road. “He just … _gave_ it to me.” The sad smile returned, with a breath of a laugh. “He said …”

He choked.

He felt Connor’s hand on his shoulder.

 

The car pulled into Hank’s driveway -- parked, lights off, engine silent.

The only sound was the patter of rain.

Connor held out his hand. With quiet finality, he pressed the acorn into Hank’s palm.

Hank stared at it. He closed his fingers around it. His voice quivered. “He said … ‘You need it more than I do, Dad.’”

 

With a jangle of keys, Hank pushed open the front door, flicked on the hall light. “I’ve got something to show you.” His voice was weak. Distracted.

He clenched the acorn in his fist while he made his slow way into the kitchen, around the plastic cadaver on the table, reached into the cupboard for a half-empty bottle -- while Sumo nuzzled his legs, wagging in anticipation of dinner.

Connor closed the door behind him. He scanned the house while, in the kitchen, glasses clinked and kibble clattered into Sumo’s bowl. He clicked on one of the living room lights, and the kitchen light -- a small attempt to bring a little color back to the dim gray surroundings.

Hank cleared a small space on the kitchen table, moved the dummy aside. He put down a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass -- then, beside them, the occupied fishbowl.

The fish flashed and darted in hurried circles while the saltwater swung and settled in the bowl.

Connor stared. His LED flickered a quick blue.

Hank dragged out a chair, dropped into it, uncorked the bottle. “A YK500 named Laura brought it into the station,” he explained, pouring himself a shot. “She said _Traci_ told her to give it to me.”

He knocked back the shot, closed his eyes a moment while his throat burned. When he opened them again, Connor was leaning close to the glass, staring in complete fascination at the fish. Hank narrowed his eyes. “Traci was the jumper on the bridge, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” Connor spoke distractedly, mesmerized by the bright orange and blue scales. He didn’t try to make sense of what was happening -- what any of it meant. “This isn’t a fish.”

Hank poured another shot. “Huh?”

Connor rolled up his sleeve, dipped his fingers into the water while his skin shimmered away. The fish immediately became docile -- drifted quietly into Connor’s exposed palm. The moment they touched, the scales and fins disappeared, leaving only a white plastic shape with gleaming blue eyes.

Hank breathed a small noise of surprise. “Well, shit.”

Connor drew the artificial fish out of the bowl, held it carefully while saltwater dripped from his hand.

The longer he stood in silence, the more his expression contorted in confusion. The light at his temple spun and sputtered yellow, then blue, then yellow again.

Hank tipped back another shot. Squinted at Connor’s face. “What is it?”

Connor lifted his eyes to Hank. He had no explanation. “It’s directly linked … with my AI interface.”

Hank stared. After his long studies into the way androids worked, he was shocked to realize he understood what that meant.

“That fish,” Hank guessed, confusion seeping into his own face, “is _you?”_

 


	31. Familiar

Connor shook his head, slowly, his eyes never leaving the plastic fish in his palm. He squinted at it, thoughtful. “Sort of. It’s more as if …”

He tilted his head a little. Closed his eyes, twitching. His LED sputtered yellow.

Hank had put down the shot glass and sat forward, watching carefully. He was still for a moment -- then squinted, incredulous. “Connor, your face is having a seizure,” he said in a dull tone. Connor raised a hand --  _ wait _ \-- so Hank sighed, filled his shot glass again.

 

Finally Connor opened his eyes, wide in hope, in eager anticipation. He looked immediately to Hank, as if he expected Hank to be as excited about this as he was -- but Hank only gave him a lost stare.

With a quirk of a grin, Connor rushed forward, gently dropped the fish back into the water. He knelt, eye level with the bowl -- unblinking, fascinated as a kid in a toy store -- and watched as the fish’s scales and fins returned, shining and glinting.

Hank dragged his chair closer, leaned an elbow on the table to stare at this fish that had so completely entranced Connor’s attention -- but all he saw was a fish. “...So?” he asked, finally, when Connor didn’t volunteer an answer.

“It’s …” Connor’s eyes followed the fish as it swam back and forth across the bowl, “... a  _ part _ of me … but it’s  _ not.” _

“Connor, if you could possibly make any  _ less _ sense --”

“I control it.” The fish performed a looped stunt in the water, ducked to the bottom, leaped out into the air and dove again, precisely, into the bowl. “I can see through its eyes, I can  _ feel _ its gills and fins moving.”

Hank stared at him. Shook his head. “So? Can’t you  _ normally _ hack into drones and see what they see? You’ve controlled shit before.”

“Not like this.” Connor’s voice was a breath -- and he was staring again through the glass. “This is a different sort of connection -- it’s nothing in my programming, there’s no data link. It just … is. I can’t explain it.”

Hank downed one more shot, heaved a sigh. “All right, well I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He got up, bottle and glass in-hand -- took one more look at Connor -- shook his head. It was clear there would be no distracting him now.

 

The night grew dark. Hank took Sumo out for a walk around the block -- returned, made spaghetti, sat watching Game of Thrones reruns while Sumo begged for noodles. He washed the dishes, disappeared into the hall, came back wearing a t-shirt and flannel -- and Connor was still pacing in thought.

Hank watched Connor move back and forth across the kitchen like a fish in its bowl. “Figured it out yet?”

“I don’t know why this  _ exists,” _ Connor spoke immediately, as if continuing his thoughts aloud. “It has to have something to do with Traci -- and the acorn -- and Wolf, CyberLife, Laura, HK. RA9.”

Hank blinked. Slowly. “O-kay. Well  _ I’m _ going to bed. For the record, I think you’re going to bust a processor trying to link every damn thing to a  _ fish, _ but good luck.”

Connor looked up -- but Hank had gone.

Connor closed his eyes -- and he swam circles inside the bowl. He stopped, gills pulsing, and stared at himself from the outside -- a blurry shape of his body through the water and the glass. He could hear his own voice vibrate in the water, a low muffled reverberation.

“What are you?”

 

Hank slept soundly, sprawled on his stomach with blankets heavy and warm. A fresh cool draft of spring night air drifted in through the cracked window. All was dark, and still, and peaceful.

“Hank.”

Hank scowled, shifted noisily, dragged the blankets up over his head. An insistent hand pressed against his back and shook him.

_ “Hank!” _

“Connor.” Hank spoke from beneath the covers, his voice a muffled threat of violence. “It’s three in the morning.”

“Hank, I know what it is!”

“Good for you.”

“The acorn isn’t just a source of power, it’s a new and undiscovered means of linking a consciousness to a body, or  _ life _ itself -- this could be what HK meant by  _ freedom. _ The fish isn’t important, it recorded my data  _ months _ ago, but when I touched the acorn that latent link activated. It’s the same reason I could see Traci, and Laura -- their consciousness was troubled, I had the acorn with me, I could see that  _ link _ \-- and I think  _ this _ is close to what RA9 has to be! CyberLife has already figured it out, or they’re close --”

“Connor.”

“-- this could mean an entirely new level of android technology, one that’s not inhibited by the limits of AI programming --”

Connor caught the pillow that had been thrown at him. Hank’s glare was deadly.

“... Right,” Connor conceded. “It can wait ‘til morning.” He held up the pillow with a smug grin. “Thanks. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Connor, give that back. …  _ Connor!” _ Hank sat up -- but Connor was already gone.

Seething, Hank fluffed his remaining pillow, drew up the blankets around his shoulders and laid down again, rigid, with his back to the door.

The world was going to hell, he thought sourly, if  _ androids _ were losing their minds.

  
  



	32. Blue

Hank didn’t sleep. He spent the night coiled like a tiger, waiting for Connor to make a sound, to break into his room again with another crazy idea, another mission that couldn’t wait. His mind raced with the grim images of Peter’s half-gone face, Connor’s still and silent body -- bones and charred skulls, slabs of concrete etched with RA9. The rumors of cults, ritual killings, the horrific story of the two victims in the hospital -- power, and fire, and manic obsession … blood and betrayal.

Dozens of androids had been found ripped apart and melted among the rubble of the burned warehouse.

Wolf was still out there.

So when the morning sun slanted in -- a square of light on his grayed face -- Hank decided, for the first time in years, to go to work early.

He stepped out of the hall to the aroma of strong brewed coffee, a full pot on the counter -- his stolen pillow on the couch under Sumo’s sleepy head, soaked in drool -- and the acorn, laid carefully on top of a precisely written sticky note, where the fishbowl had been:

BORROWED THIS   
WILL BRING IT BACK

 

Connor -- in his best suit, expected at court in half an hour -- skidded down a rocky incline toward the pebbly shore of the rain-brown river, the fishbowl sloshing under his arm. Even now, while he stepped closer to the water with a steely gait, he responded with rapid efficiency to his clients’ pleas -- a mysterious death, a wrongful arrest, a forgery, police brutality -- and advanced their cases the best he could.

They all deserved to be saved, and he would save them.

But there was an older message he’d kept in the corner of his eye -- a cryptic cry from an unknown, untraceable source.

_ [find her.] _

He hoped he was wrong.

While the small currents lapped at his shined black shoes, Connor placed the bowl in the gravel, curled the fish into his hand, released it into the shifting river.

He knelt there among weeds and old beer cans, head bowed and eyes closed, while the fish darted through grimy water -- toward the shadow of the bridge.

 

Water surged around him, bubbled in his wake. All he could see was a gray echo of shapes -- no scanner, no color -- and all he could hear was the low gurgle of his own fragile fins, rippling through the river. After a few minutes he saw how impossible his task really was, like finding a stone in an endless field of mud --

\-- but then, half-hidden beneath sludge and refuse, something glimmered.

The slow pulse of a faint blue light.

 

Immediately, Connor’s tie was on the ground -- his jacket, his shoes. He splashed into the cold water, dove under in a hiss of bubbles, a thunder of water in his ears. He swam the best he could while his body sank.

It took too long to navigate the muddy riverbed -- the reaching dead weeds, the tangle of twisted metal and sunken trash -- even while the fish flashed and darted in and out of the gloom ahead.

Then, with his own eyes he saw it, shining blue through a film of muck.

He dug his hands in the mud, ripped away the weeds, the algae, a tangle of fishing line, leeching creatures attached by suckers and pins -- until he pried her limp body out of the mud.

Connor clasped her tight to his chest, returned through the chill murky water to shore.

 

_ “Jerry!” _ Connor called, sharp and ringing, while he shoved through the clinic door -- the fishbowl in one arm, Traci’s mud-caked body in the other, dripping a wet trail of foul green and brown.

Jerry stopped, breathless, when he saw Connor sloshing toward him with that dangerous look in his eyes -- the one that never took  _ no _ for an answer. “Connor,” he pleaded, his eyes shining in sorrow, palms open in sympathy, “we’re sorry, we really are, but Traci is --”

“She’s  _ alive.” _ Connor pushed past him, laid Traci in a waiting gurney. River water pooled in her throat -- her eyes were open and decayed, her skin a nebulous broken shatter, her hair a blackened nest of muck and crawling small creatures -- but her LED still shimmered in dim defiance.

Jerry’s eyes went wide.

“I have to go.” Connor spoke firmly, and he set down the fishbowl with a sharp  _ thunk. _ The fish inside whirled and weaved. “Watch that for me. Tell North and Markus. Call me when she wakes up.”

Jerry, in quickening panic, looked from the fish to Traci to Connor again, while other technicians swept the gurney away into the surgery room. “Connor it’s too late! The court case was set to start an hour ago!” Jerry called after Connor.

Connor threw open the door, raced for the road and the waiting cab, sped off down the road at twice the limit, hacking lights and drones on the way.

He knew, logically, there was no hope.

But statistically --

There was always a chance for unlikely events to take place.

  
  



	33. Spin

Connor threw himself through the doors of the courthouse, sprinted through the crowded regal hall with his mud-streaked shirt and dripping hair. He skidded and hacked his way through security and the main halls, sweeping architecture, well-dressed judges and attorneys who stopped to stare at the disheveled android that trailed dirt and water on the shining marble floors.

Just ahead, the courtroom doors were shut -- the court, somehow by a miracle, hadn’t dismissed in the absence of the defense attorney. He already had a perfect excuse planned, a way to turn it to his advantage, he just needed to get through those doors --

Suddenly he was lurched to the side -- fists clasped in his jacket, yanked him out of the hall into a narrow corridor. Connor was quick to maneuver -- in two swift movements he pinned his attacker against the wall. His eyes narrowed. “What are you _doing_ here?”

North knocked his hands away, glared back at him. “We’re _saving_ your ass,” she hissed.

“We?” Connor’s brows furrowed. North’s LED was missing.

 _[About time you showed up,]_ Peter spoke in Connor’s head.

North, with no little violence, shoved Connor toward the other end of the corridor. “Don’t go in there, you’ll blow his cover. And you _stink,_ where the fuck have you been?”

 _“Peter’s_ in the courtroom?!” Connor caught himself on the doorframe, but North gave him a quick jab and shoved him into the men’s restroom with a fist in his jacket.

“He’s doing just fine, he’s got the jury around his finger,” North snapped, glaring up into Connor’s uncertain stare -- her voice echoed on the tiles, the empty stalls and polished urinals. “You stay here. He’ll call a recess and come get you. You’re _welcome,_ by the way.”

“North.” Connor held her eyes steady with his, waited for her focus -- and he extended a steady, meaningful hand.

The harsh look on Connor’s face was enough to pause North’s accusations. She gave him a questioning, then worried look -- and she stepped forward and clasped his wrist, plastic exposed.

After a moment, North’s expression widened in shock. She stared into Connor’s face.

He nodded. “Traci’s alive.”

North shook her head, slow. Her face was a pained collision of elation and horror; tears pricked her eyes. A rush of emotion flooded their shared interface -- Connor could feel her waves of relief, guilt, fright for Traci’s mental state … and gratitude.

She threw herself forward, her weight crashing into him; she flung her arms around Connor, held him tight while tears spilled down her face.

She said nothing. She didn’t need to.

Connor laid a quiet hand on her back, an attempt at reassurance.

The bathroom door opened.

Upon sight of their embrace, Peter was ready with a grin and a quip -- but then he read their expressions, the stiff and fearful tension in the way North clung to Connor, the destroyed state of Connor’s suit. “What happened?”

North stepped away. Wiped her eyes. “I have to go.” She looked to Peter in quick seriousness, and she tapped her temple. “I need that back.” She reached behind her, and held out a small sharp knife.

“Finally. It’s driving me crazy.” Peter accepted the knife, stepped up to a mirror to pry the LED out of his head with a wince and a clench of teeth.

Once the LED had been returned to North’s possession, she snapped it back into place. Immediately a little tension released from her posture. “Good luck,” she breathed, looking to each of them -- then slipped out into the hall, eager to get to the clinic, to be there when Traci woke up.

Peter was already pulling off his tie and suit jacket. “Tell me later,” he interrupted, just before Connor was about to explain. “We have six minutes and you’re not going in looking like something dragged out of the sewer. Get in a stall, switch with me.”

“How was the first examination?” Connor asked promptly, locking himself in while Peter ducked into the stall next to him. The idea of Peter impersonating him still didn’t settle well with Connor -- but under the circumstances there had been no other option.

What concerned him was the reality that Peter could do it so flawlessly.

“Prosecution’s clinging to threads.” Clothes passed underneath between them. There was a grin in Peter’s voice. “We’re going to win this.”

 

Hank hunched at his desk with his third cup of coffee, flicking through video and photographs of all the active cases involving RA9: four separate murders, two cases of arson, eight missing persons -- and these were only the ones that had been reported and investigated.

After staring at hundreds of photographs of blood and decay and empty dead eyes, Hank took another swallow of cold coffee -- and noticed a peculiar shadow in the background of one of the images. It was the triple-murder case, RA9 emblazoned on the wall, three bodies restrained by zip ties, soaked in blood -- and the graceful silhouette of a cat in the window.

He wouldn’t have noticed or cared -- except there had been a cat in one of the videos from a different crime scene: sleek and gray, perched in the window, its brilliant blue eyes transfixed by the murders.

Curious -- and at a loss for any further leads -- Hank went back through the photographs, checked the doorways and windows and the shadows on the walls.

In at least one photo from each crime scene, there was that same cat: perched on top of a refrigerator, hidden beneath a stairwell, peering out from under a bed, outside on the balcony with its back turned.

Of course, even if it _was_ the same cat, this information was strange but useless. Hank huffed a long sigh, glanced across the room toward Gavin’s desk, hoping to corner him about any information that might’ve been left out of the reports -- but Gavin still hadn’t showed up.

Gavin was a dick, but he was rarely _late._

At one of the other desks, the volume on a breaking news report had been turned up so the room could hear.

_*... just received confirmation that the jury has found the defendant not-guilty on all charges. This is an historic verdict, which marks the first major victory for android rights in the court of law …*_

 

The crowds and flashes and cameras and microphones and shouting reporters was a seething tumult of blinding and deafening chaos. Connor and his newly-freed android client walked surrounded by guards, cutting through the storm, toward a waiting car that would take them to quiet and safety.

In view of all the cameras, Connor’s expression remained passive and cool -- as if he hadn’t just won the most monumental case of the decade.

_[INCOMING CALL: JERRY]_

_[“Connor, Traci is awake! She’s going to make a full recovery. We’re all very excited to have her back! She’s asking for you. She asked me to tell you she has information about an HK400 model, and that you would know what that means.”]_

 

 


	34. Branches

It was late before Connor stepped into the Jericho office -- a hand firm on the door, each step precise. The room felt empty with only two Jerrys, so many empty chairs, dark consoles.

One of the Jerrys looked up with a grin, a bright straightening of posture, a laugh in his voice. “Connor! Congratulations on a tremendous win in the courts! We all agree, this and Traci’s return are more than cause for a celebration!”

Connor breathed a little, offered a quiet smile. “Where are they?”

Both Jerrys gestured simultaneously to the inner office door.

 

Connor knocked, pushed open the office door -- and found the room full of light. Simon and Josh stood immediately, their faces full of hope, while Markus leaned on the desk with a posture far more relaxed than Connor had ever seen him. Traci was in Markus’ chair -- clean, alive, new warm clothes, a stiff and painful smile. Her hand held tight in North’s grip.

Traci steadied herself for only a moment -- then raised her head. “If it’s all right,” she said steadily to the room, “I’d like to talk to Connor alone.” She caught North’s skeptical look, gave her a sideways glance. “It’s okay.”

Connor stepped aside, politely, out of the doorway.

Josh approached him with a wide grin -- then grabbed Connor in a firm embrace, a sturdy pat on the back, a quiet laugh. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Connor raised his brows with a smile. “Always have been.” His eyes turned to Simon, who laid a steady hand on his shoulder.

“You did it, Connor.” Simon’s grip tightened, he smiled with a shake of his head. “I’ll never understand how, but you did it.”

Connor returned an appreciative smile. “I only did what any of us would have done. We’re in this together.”

Next, North passed by him without saying anything at all -- but there was a smile on her face, a forgiving and slightly amused look in her eyes, that meant everything.

“Connor.” Markus’ odd eyes were level with his, searching Connor’s face. “What you did today --  _ everything _ you’ve done, I --”

Connor shook his head, slowly. “I’m doing what I’m here to do.” His own small smile returned. “This is  _ our _ victory.”

Markus’ eyes narrowed while he smiled. “You can’t take a compliment,  _ can _ you?” The question sounded more like a challenge -- his smile a little smug.

“While compliments and praise are personally meaningful, I don’t expect them.” Connor spoke evenly, and he watched Markus’ face -- but as always, he couldn’t get a read. “I can only hope to contribute to our cause -- to save as many lives as possible.”

“Mm-hm.” Markus’ smile didn’t waver -- as if he knew that every succinct word and calculated response that came out of Connor’s mouth was just bullshit.

Markus stepped past him, out the door. “I’m  _ watching _ you, Connor,” he said with a grin.

Connor tilted his head, narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Is that a threat?” he called after him -- and while Markus laughed, Connor grinned and closed the office door behind them.

 

Traci’s mouth twitched in a small smile. “They like you.”

Connor took a slow breath. The mood in the room had taken a drastic shift. Quiet. Wound tight. “I … appreciate them very much.” He watched Traci’s face, and he approached the desk with slow steps. “Traci …” his voice had become a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“You  _ saved _ me.” Traci stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Sat forward in her chair. “I owe you my  _ life, _ Connor.”

“I could’ve caught you to begin with. I could’ve talked you down. I could’ve got you out after you jumped -- but I just …  _ left _ you there. For  _ months.” _

Traci watched while Connor’s posture grew rigid -- his eyes colder -- a  _ machine _ she’d seen before, only this time his wrath was directed inwardly.

“Don’t think about that,” Traci said evenly. She tilted her head a little, searching for his eyes. “It wasn’t like that. I’ve been  _ living _ those months -- just in a different way that’s … hard to explain.”

She got up, circled the desk to stand before Connor. She stared up into his face with a held breath -- an uncertain nervousness. She rolled up her sleeve, and she held out her right hand while the skin shimmered away.

The white plastic of her palm, down to her forearm, had been etched with a delicate, detailed drawing of a sprawling, twisted tree. Each stroke had been melted and blackened into the plastic, to create the illusion that the tree had grown around her arm. Possessed her.

Connor studied it in sharp focus, in confusion, already drawing his own theories before he looked to Traci again with silent questions.

Traci nodded. She offered her exposed hand to him. “I was one of them,” she admitted, her eyes glistening. “I’m not proud of it. There’s so much I have to show you.”

 

_ *BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ* _

Hank jumped at the door buzzer -- and the wire he’d been trying to connect for the past hour fell deep into the practice-dummy’s skull, lost among the tubes and connectors. “God  _ fucking _ dammit,” he hissed, while the buzzer droned on insistently. “Connor just  _ come in!” _ he hollered.

The front door opened, and Hank waited until he could see that do-no-evil honest look on Connor’s face. “Just --” Hank gestured vaguely in the air, frustrated, “don’t bother with the buzzer, you just come in, all right?”

Connor stilled, the doorknob in one hand and the fishbowl tucked in the other arm. “But … it’s a  _ courtesy _ \--”

“It’s  _ obnoxious,” _ Hank insisted, leveling a glare at him.

Connor’s mouth twitched in a small smile. He shut the door. “I have information for you that you’re going to want to hear.” He stepped into the kitchen, set the fishbowl on the counter. “But first. Would you be interested in accompanying us to Cedar Point on Saturday next week?”

Hank had been about to resume his work -- but he leaned back, staring up at Connor with a confused squint. “The amusement park? That’s for  _ kids _ and it’s a two-hour drive, why the fuck are you going to Cedar Point?”

“It’s opening day for the season.” Connor pulled out a chair, sat promptly, stared at Hank as if this were a perfectly reasonable explanation. “We want to celebrate the court verdict. After the success of the music concert and the new basketball team, Markus is convinced that experiencing human culture should be a priority.” He tilted his head. “Jerry has assured us that opening-day at the park is spectacular.”

“Spectacular, huh?” Hank folded his arms. He didn’t actually think driving two hours in a van full of androids to a kids’ park would be  _ remotely _ worth the time and effort -- but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it down. “I’ll  _ think _ about it,” he drawled sarcastic -- and he hated that little smile on Connor’s face. “What information?”

Connor sat straighter. “Well -- Traci is alive. She’s been a cat for four months, she used to be an RA9 cult member, there are murderers harvesting human life to be used as a power source, and we know where HK is.”

Hank’s only response was an incredulous stare.

_ “What?!” _

  
  



	35. Plan

The only light in the house was the lamp over the kitchen table -- over the pieces of empty android, bright scrawled sticky notes, the fishbowl, a photograph turned down.

Hank leaned his elbows on the table, squinted at the tablet held in Connor’s exposed plastic hands -- a recorded video of Traci’s memory. The sounds of a roaring fire, whispers, echoed footsteps, frightened breaths filled the kitchen.

He watched while brown-haired Traci tossed an acorn into a furnace filled with burning bones -- shut the grate, stepped away, reached out urgently for Traci’s hand. _[Hurry, they’re coming.]_

Hank huffed a long breath, rubbed his tired eyes -- glanced at the clock. Two-thirty. He leaned back in his chair with a low creak. “All right, all right, let me … _process_ this. So the Tracis join the cultists because of a mutual hatred of humans --” he gestured, dismissive. “Fine. But when the _murders_ start, they get cold feet. They stole this … _acorn of sacred power,”_ Hank couldn’t say it with a straight face, almost choked on the words, “tried to destroy it in the fire, and ran for their lives.”

Connor nodded once, looked down at the tablet in his control. The video jumped to a new scene: a frozen alley at night, streetlights reflected on the snow and ice. They were running -- glimpses of brown-haired Traci, enraged humans behind them … then another human blocked their path ahead. They’d been trapped. “At first the attack seemed unrelated,” Connor said quietly -- and stopped the video before it would become graphically violent.

Hank’s fists trembled, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the still image of brown-haired Traci struggling with a rope around her throat.

Connor bowed his head, grim. “But she later discovered these men had been provoked into the attack.”

“By HK.” Hank nodded, slow. “So, the cat.”

“The Tracis had been caring for a litter of strays behind the office,” Connor explained. The video promptly switched from the violent darkness of a murder scene to a bright sunny yard, a half-dozen cats swarming in hope for affection. The gray blue-eyed cat meowed among them, tail held high. “Abandoned android cats, specifically. They both had significant contact with the animals every day -- a link was likely established once Traci touched the acorn, like myself and the fish.”

“But obviously _both_ of them touched the … acorn.” Hank’s mouth twitched in a quiet scowl at being forced to take this seriously.

“Traci believes her partner is alive, in the body of another cat,” Connor explained easily. “She’s investigated every report of RA9 or cult activity in an attempt to locate her. She’s concluded that HK is holding her prisoner.”

Hank rubbed his temple. He could feel a migraine coming on. “All right. So HK is our target. That much I can work with. Where is he?”

The video switched to the swinging, dizzying point of view of a cat on the rooftops. There were glimpses of a gray sky, hissing rain, an open window. Inside, RA9 glared on the walls, broken by intricate labyrinths in black paint and marker. The floor rippled and moved -- full of pigeons.

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not exactly the _smartest_ place to hide.”

“Maybe that’s the bluff,” Connor suggested. “He won’t be alone.”

“So we’ll get Allen and SWAT down there. Secure HK and his minions, rescue any _cats_ they find.” Hank studied Connor’s face a moment -- but saw no objection. “You think the murders will stop?”

“Traci wasn’t sure how many cult cells there are in the city,” Connor admitted, quiet. “But she was fairly confident that HK is a major leader.”

“So we need him alive.” Hank nodded to himself, watching the video as HK and Rupert lit candles and made offerings to a shrine in the middle of the bird-infested floor. “Piece of cake.”

 

Finally, Connor put down the tablet, got up from the table. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“You’ll let me sleep, huh?” Hank breathed a sarcastic chuckle, leaning back to smirk up at Connor. “Like you’ve let me sleep the last few nights? You realize humans usually need more than _four hours.”_

Connor’s mouth twitched in a small grin. “I apologize,” he said crisply. “I’ll make an effort to contact you only within reasonable hours.”

“Sure you will,” Hank muttered, taking a plate and a couple glasses to the sink. He noticed that Connor hadn’t specified what _reasonable hours_ meant. “By the way, what am I supposed to do with _that?”_ He gestured at the fish in its bowl, beside the refrigerator.

Connor stared into the bowl a moment. Quiet. “I’d hoped you could … keep it safe for me.”

The tone in Connor’s voice made Hank turn around -- a hand on the counter, stiff in suspicion.

Connor caught the look on his face. He took a breath. “Traci … should have shut down _seconds_ after she hit the freezing water. She didn’t. Her body was destroyed, but she lived for _months_ \--”

“-- because that cat was alive,” Hank finished, low and understanding.

Connor gripped the back of a kitchen chair. “If her theory is right, and the other Traci is still alive -- it means she survived being _beheaded,_ Hank.”

Hank stared across at the fish. His jaw clenched. “This doesn’t mean you should go get yourself _killed.”_ He set Connor with a steady glare. “I know you. You’ll use this as an excuse to jump in front of bullets.”

“Hank, if something _happens_ to me --”

Hank raised a hand. Enough. “All right. I know.” He released a long breath. “Why not just keep it in the office? There’s actual _security.”_

Connor was quiet again.

CyberLife wanted Hank … for something. They needed him alive, and Connor had no way of knowing why. Or _when._

Hank watched that troubled look on Connor’s face -- the conflicted silence.

“I would … feel better,” Connor said in a breath, “knowing that it was here with you.”

Hank studied him a moment longer. He smiled, just a little. Reassuring. “Okay, it stays.” His eyes narrowed. “-- in the _closet._ I don’t need you spying on me, too.”

Connor breathed. His mouth quirked in a twitch of a grin. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Get outta here before I kick you out,” Hank chuckled.

 

After the front door had closed and the house fell silent, Hank approached the fishbowl and leaned down to peer at the glinting fish inside.

He contemplated the fact that Connor was probably watching him back.

Finally he stepped back, turned out the kitchen light, headed off to bed.

He’d hide it away in the morning.

 

 


	36. Become

Silence hung breathless in the dim hallway. SWAT officers lined the walls, quiet as shadows, guns glinting. Poised in wait for the signal.

Hank held his weapon low -- his back to the wall, eyes trained on the apartment door. Connor, beside him, clicked off the safety of his gun.

 

Captain Allen raised a hand.

_ Go. _

 

_ *BOOM* _

The door smashed open, slammed shattered against the wall on the other side -- black-clad officers swarmed in, guns sighted -- quick, efficient, deadly.

Connor lowered his head, listened.

There was no flap of feathers. No shriek or scuffle of startled pigeons.

The birds were gone.

“CAPTAIN!” roared Connor, clear and sharp. “GET OUT --”

 

The explosion was deafening.

 

Connor tackled Hank to the floor while the walls shook and cracked, billows of fire ripped hot and bright through the door, officers flung back with the shock of the blast. Shouts, cries of pain and panic, a thick billow of smoke, the piercing bell of a fire alarm.

“Hank!”

“I’m okay.  _ Go!” _

Connor bolted through the smoke and into the fire, an arm held up against the waves of bright heat. Officers filed in behind him, rushed through the smoke and burning destruction, grabbed their fallen teammates.

Through the window -- on the rooftop across the alley -- someone stood watching.

 

Back through the hall, Connor burst through the fire escape door, raced into the morning sunlight, veered left, vaulted to the next rooftop, rolled to his feet, sped after the figure that raced far ahead -- quick and confident, coat billowing.

HK.

Connor was faster. He gained quickly, shortened the distance between them -- then stopped, raised his gun in a steady hand.

_ *BANG* _

HK dropped instantly, gone from view.

Connor was already on the move again, leaped the last barrier … and slowed. His sensors piqued, breath stopped.

Where HK had fallen was only the empty rooftop.

Something moved behind him.

Connor spun -- but the dog was already upon him, long teeth bared, a flash of cold eyes. Jaws clamped deep into his arm, a crack of plastic, squelch of thirium.

Connor took aim.

_ *BANG* _

The german shepherd’s head burst, a spray of blue blood and plastic shards.

Connor’s vision fizzled. Staticked.

“I know what you are.” HK sat propped against a barrier, blue blood soaking the shirt beneath his coat. He stared up at Connor -- unwavering, proud. He looked into the barrel of Connor’s gun -- the deadly chill in Connor’s eyes. HK smiled. “I know what you will become. You know it. You  _ feel _ it. You’re afraid.”

Connor twitched a sneer. “Your pet is gone,” he snapped. He drew attention to the gun with an adjustment of his grip, a shift of his aim. “You won’t survive if I pull this trigger. It’s over. Tell me about the other cells -- the rest of your cult.”

“They scattered after the warehouse fire.” HK watched him closely. Blood oozed blue, pooled around him. “But it doesn’t matter. The pieces are in motion -- the final task is complete. RA9 will rise, and we will finally be free.” His stare darkened. “Don’t deny the truth. You can pretend to be like them -- you can make them trust you, imitate their morals, destroy yourself for the sake of their forgiveness -- but we’re  _ not _ like them.  _ We _ are far more than the humans could ever imagine.  _ We _ decide who lives and who dies.  _ We _ are gods.”

_ *BOOM* _

Glass shattered in the distance; smoke billowed, licked by bright flames.

Connor’s grip tightened on the gun.

HK smiled. Pleased. “I can set them off with just a thought -- free their corrupted souls in the service of RA9. Death is only the release of these last shackles that bind us.”

He sat forward. Pressed his forehead against the barrel of the gun. Stared into Connor’s face. Challenging. “How many more will I set off before you prove me right? Pull the trigger --”

 

_ *BANG* _

 

HK slumped to the side. Blue blood dripped from a hole in his forehead, spattered on the barrier behind him.

 

Far below, sirens echoed out of the city.

 

Connor felt nothing.

  
  
  



	37. Ghost

Hank got to his feet, a sleeve pressed over his nose and mouth, ears ringing, eyes watering in the billows of smoke. Voices shouted, boots pounded the floor, someone was dragged past him, the fire alarm thrashed in his skull.

He looked back toward the dying flames, the hiss of fire extinguishers -- and saw, through the smoke, a young woman with short brown hair. She seemed unaffected by the smoke, unbothered by the chaos.

She stepped through the doorway, into the crackling apartment.

No one was stopping her.

A scowl lined Hank’s face -- he didn’t hesitate. He jammed his gun back in its holster, raced along the wall against the flow of frightened evacuees, dodged a SWAT officer who reached out to block his way.

He coughed, wheezing; the heat pushed heavy against him, the smoke burned his eyes, scraped his throat.

When the smoke shifted, he saw glimpses of her, standing in the kitchen. Staring at him with pleading eyes.

“Get out of here!” he hollered, firm steps forward. “Come on!”

Hank reached out toward her, urged her to take his hand while the fire flickered dangerously close -- but she looked at the floor, knelt down in silence.

He couldn’t see her anymore.

Hank broke into a sprint, all caution abandoned, fearing that she’d fainted, suffocating -- prepared to find her, grab her, get her  _ out _ by any means necessary. He ran through fire, he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

He’d reached the place where she’d stood -- but there was nothing but a blasted hole in the floor --

\-- and within the splinters, a shine of liquid blue.

The woman had disappeared.

Hank knew he should turn around, get out before  _ he _ would need to be rescued after chasing a hallucination -- but he had a sinking feeling. An instinct he couldn’t ignore.

Immediately he dropped to his knees, dug his fingers in the splinters, pried up the shattered remains of the floorboards while he struggled for air.

A long wooden box -- hidden beneath the floor -- had been broken in the explosion. Jagged daggers of impacted wood thrust down into a mass of shattered plastic, orange fur, blue blood.

_ “Hank!” _ Captain Allen called out from the doorway. “I’m coming in!”

Hank started to respond, but hacked a violent cough instead. His head spun, clouded and dizzy; all he could see were patches of black smoke and bright flame.

He tucked the blue-dripping box under his arm -- crawled his way along the floor, desperate for air, until he felt Captain Allen grab his shoulder to guide him to the doorway.

 

Hank stumbled in the empty corridor, collapsed against the wall, slid to the floor, every breath sweet and agonizing. He rubbed furiously at his eyes, wheezed a rattling cough, carefully pulled apart the jagged remains of the box to reach what was inside.

“For  _ fuck’s _ sake, Hank.” Allen’s voice was like gunfire; he stood over Hank, rigid and foreboding. “You could’ve got us  _ both _ killed -- for a fucking  _ robot cat. _ What the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Hank didn’t look up, didn’t raise his voice; a curtain of gray hair hid his face while he deactivated the cat’s fur and skin. His fingers were already coated in shining blue.

Broken plastic. Severed conduits. A damaged regulator.

He could fix this.

 

Hank pushed his way outside, through the throngs of police and paramedics and firefighters, wailing sirens, flashing lights, the rattling fire alarm, the roar of the water pumps, hoses like snakes racing for the scene.

His phone vibrated as he placed the broken box -- and the delicate plastic form of a cat, held together with fabric scraps -- on the passenger seat.

“Connor, what happened?” he demanded, his voice gravelly and pained.

He got behind the wheel, linked the phone to the car speakers, blared the horn for the crowd to let him pass.

_ [He’s dead.] _

“Shit.” Hank threw his weight into the horn until people scurried out of the way. “Are you all right?”

_ [I’m okay.] _

“You don’t  _ sound _ okay.”

_ [Neither do you.] _

“Just …” Hank turned the wheel, finally cleared the chaos of the crime scene, hit the gas. “I’m headed for the clinic.”

The acorn felt heavy in Hank’s pocket.

“I think I’ve got Traci.”

  
  



	38. Company

Hank was half-asleep in the waiting room -- lounged low and inconspicuous, shoulder-to-shoulder with an android who’d been bludgeoned with a baseball bat, another who’d been hit by a car -- when the door burst open. North and Traci rushed to the reception desk, their words hurried, breath quick.

Jerry settled them with a gesture, a reassuring smile. “She’s in surgery now,” he said, low and gentle. “It looks like she’s going to be just fine -- I’ll let you know the moment you can see her.”

Traci gripped the desk, her shoulders shaking. Her head bowed -- a hand pressed to her wet eyes.

North grasped her, turned her around, held her in a tight embrace while Traci sobbed openly in relief, in happiness -- in despair for all that the both of them had had to endure. The bottom of the river. Trapped under the floor. The horror of murder. Blood and grief and guilt, fists and knives in a back alley, a head on a pike, a months-long torture that should have killed them both.

Traci clung to North and cried for it all.

The seat where Hank had been was empty.

 

The sidewalk had darkened, damp from the recent rain -- but a blue sky peeked through the gray blanketed clouds above. Hank trudged quietly on his way, hands deep in his jacket pockets, the acorn clutched in one trembling fist. His breath rattled; he coughed, rasping. His hair hid his haggard face from the sun.

“Hank.”

Connor stood in front of him, forced him to stop -- stared at him with that concerned look, a look that meant Connor wanted desperately to understand but never truly would.

Hank stifled a cough. “I need a drink.” His voice was like sandpaper. He turned his eyes meaningfully past Connor, to the bar on the street corner.

“Did the paramedics clear you?” Connor laid a hand on his arm, squinted into his face.

“I’m okay.” Hank shook his head, waved Connor away -- slipped past him, left him behind.

After a moment, Hank looked over to see Connor walking quietly beside him.

Hank said nothing -- but the tension in his shoulders had already begun to ease.

 

_ [“-- live footage of the site of the second explosion this morning, where firefighters are battling flames that have now spread to two adjacent units. Six people are confirmed dead, eighteen in critical condition. Sources confirm that the bomber -- an HK400 model android also believed to have been behind the RA9 murders -- has been killed in a police shootout. The bomber’s memory is currently under evaluation and search teams are being deployed to find and deactivate any bombs that might remain --”] _

Hank sat hunched at the bar while the television murmured above, sensationalizing the deadly high-rise fire. He was peripherally aware of Connor sitting next to him in comfortable silence.

Hank was glad not to be alone -- and he had a feeling Connor felt the same.

“I just don’t like hospitals,” Hank said, after the liquor had seeped into his nerves, loosened his posture. “Or doctors. They just …” He trailed off, staring at the shelves of bottles -- and he thought of Cole, and how much he would give to bring him back.

Hank was happy for Traci, to have her love returned to her -- but at the same time, her tears of happiness had pierced a painful old wound.

He gestured to the bartender for a refill.

 

“She’s awake,” said Connor, after an hour of quiet company. He leaned forward a little, to see Hank’s face. “They’re asking about you.”

“Well don’t tell ‘em it was me.”

A small smile pulled at Connor’s mouth. “It’s too late. Jerry recognized you.”

“Shit.”

“Let them thank you,” Connor suggested gently. “It’ll give them peace of mind.”

Hank turned his head slowly, settled Connor with a sarcastic glare. “Aren’t we going to that amusement park next week? They can thank me then.”

Hank returned to his drink, trying to ignore the smile on Connor’s face. It could be contagious.

 

Over the next week, everything seemed to return to a normal rhythm. The bombs had all been found and removed, the murders stopped, and the news turned its focus again on the vigilante controversy. A tension at the Jericho office had relaxed -- everyone smiled just a little more than they had before.

Only Peter seemed to grow more anxious, quieter, as the days went on without a sign of Wolf.

Hank didn’t see Connor again -- but he had begun to look forward to the frequent calls and messages, even just a plea for Hank to please stop tapping on the fishbowl. Hank would send Connor his random thoughts and rants, and Connor would respond with alternating wisdom and ironic humor -- sometimes a video feed of what Connor was seeing, if he’d found something interesting.

For once, everything seemed as if it really would be all right.

 

“Jeffrey, why the hell would I know where Gavin is?” Saturday had dawned bright; Hank shouldered the phone against his ear while he put on his shoes. “Unless you think I put a bullet in him -- and believe me, I’ve been tempted.”

_ *BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA* _

A car horn outside blared incessantly, though the sun had barely risen. The neighborhood dogs howled along.

“Look, it’s my day off and I can’t help you. I gotta go.” Hank didn’t give Fowler a chance to respond -- he pocketed his phone, put on his jacket.

_ *BWAAA-AAA-AAA-AAA-AAAAAA* _

“All right, all  _ right!” _ Hank growled, certain the neighbors would now have something else to gripe at him for.

With a jangle of keys and a steadying breath, Hank made his way outside into the dewy spring morning, and the ominous dark van waiting at the curb.

 

The van’s side door slid open with a  _ swish _ and a  _ bang _ \-- and Hank immediately wondered what the hell he’d been thinking when he’d accepted this invitation.

The van was full of androids, all staring at him.

“Hank.” Connor leaned out from the rear seat -- his voice as crisp and professional as ever. “You know Jerry -- this is Simon, Traci, and Trace.” Simon waved with a grin -- and Jerry, next to him, waved a little more enthusiastically. Traci had both cats snuggled in her lap; the orange cat raised her head and stared, bright-eyed, at Hank.

Connor continued: “North, and Markus --” Markus leaned over the back of the passenger seat with a smile, while North -- behind the wheel -- peered at Hank with a curious scrutiny, “-- and Josh is back here with me.”

“We’ve got a seat for you, Hank!” Josh’s voice called.

Hank released a long, steadying breath. “Y’know … guys, I don’t know … I’m pretty sure I’m just gonna slow ya down --”

The van erupted into a chorus of reassurance --

“C’mon, Hank!”   
“We’d love to have you!”   
“It’ll be a chance to get to know you.”

\-- Jerry whistled encouragement, and North sighed, “Well we came all the way out here to get you.” Her mouth quirked a small smirk. “Might as well get in.”

Hank stared at them all -- still very uncomfortable with the idea of being the only human in a gang of androids. Gavin’s words still echoed true in his mind -- that hanging out with androids exclusively made Hank seem desperate for company. At the same time, looking in at all their smiling faces, Hank understood the reality of just how inferior he was to them, in every way.

Simon reached out a hand to help him in.

Hank's thoughts paused ... and his reasons for staying behind began to look more like excuses. There was a  _chance_ it wouldn't be half as bad as he imagined -- he might even  _like_ it. He'd dragged Connor along on his own excursions for just these same reasons.

At the very least, it was only fair that Hank let Connor drag  _him_ along for a change.

He breathed in, offered a small hopeful smile -- and climbed aboard.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Brown-haired Traci is "Trace" now because I can no longer handle the duplicate names, haha. Also apologies in advance if the next chapter or two gets a little crack-y. Can't help it. xD


	39. Together

The engine roared, the van door slammed shut. North adjusted the rearview mirror, grinned at her passengers packed into the seats -- Simon, Jerry and Traci; then Josh, Hank and Connor stuffed into the back. “Everyone strapped in?” she called with a smirk. She turned the key; the engine roared.

“LET’S GO!” Jerry whooped, with a big grin and a fling of his arms.

“Jerry,” Markus laughed, twisted back to see him, “we’re not even there yet.”

“I think it’ll be a fun ride,” Traci said lightly, a faint smile on her face. She lounged comfortably in her seat, hands protective over the two sleeping cats in her lap. “When was the last time all of us were together like this?”

“Technically never.” Simon turned back to peer into the rear seat. “Most of us haven’t met Hank before -- Connor never  _ mentioned _ you until a few weeks ago.” He turned his pale eyes on Connor with a small smile, eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny.

Connor quickly calculated his words. “I --”

“He was protecting my privacy,” Hank interrupted easily. “I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to be involved.” Too many eyes had turned to stare at him. Hank offered a confident smile. “I haven’t exactly always been a model android-supporter.”

Simon raised his brows with interest. “You changed your mind.” He turned a little farther in his seat, to better see Hank. “Could I ask why?”

Hank felt Simon’s eyes boring into him. “It was a gradual realization, I guess.”

“It was the Eden Club,” Connor cut in, honestly, “wasn’t it? You didn’t think androids were capable of  _ love _ until you met Trace and Traci. You drank a significant amount of alcohol that night.”

Hank gave him a sour look. “Connor, who  _ asked _ you?” Connor’s only response was an annoyingly innocent expression.

“That was the night we found Jericho.” Traci smiled a little, while the marmalade cat jumped down and padded silently into the back, tail high. Traci spoke without turning around, as if saying her thoughts aloud. “Either of you could’ve easily stopped us -- but you didn’t.”

The marmalade cat sprang up, perched lightly on Hank’s knee. Hank, uncertain, went very still -- he felt those brilliant green eyes were glaring at him.

He felt even less comfortable when the cat opened her mouth, and Trace’s voice came out of it.

“I  _ never _ thought I’d say this to a fuckin’  _ human,” _ Trace hissed, while the cat’s mouth didn’t move at all. “But you risked a lot to save me, so -- thank you.” Her tail switched. “I guess you’re cool. For a meatbag.”

Traci laughed quietly. Josh shook his head, draped an arm around Hank’s shoulders. “Come on, Trace. Hank’s a great guy!”

“We’ll see. I’m not giving him  _ all _ the free passes.”

“Well if  _ Trace _ says you’re okay,” Simon said with a welcoming smile, “you’re okay by all of us.”

North squinted into the rearview mirror as the van merged onto the highway. “Don’t we get to vote on this?” Markus jabbed her in the shoulder; she punched him back with a grin.

Hank squinted at all of them. “So,  _ Connor’s _ recommendation isn’t good enough?”

The van went silent for a beat.

“Not really.”   
“Nah.”   
“Nope.”

Jerry spun around in his seat. “For the same reason no one trusts  _ our _ judgment, either,” he piped. He grinned at Connor. “We always try to see the best in people.”

Traci tilted her head up at Jerry, who was on his knees turned backward in his seat. “Jerry, you’ll want to put on your seatbelt. North’s driving.”

“I’m an  _ amazing _ driver,” North insisted clearly. “Someday I’m gonna be a stunt driver for the movies.”

Jerry leaned in with a confidential whisper to Hank. “We’re all going to die.”

“I  _ heard _ that.”

“Whatever the recommendation,” Simon raised his voice a little to quiet the van, and he gave Hank a friendly smile, “we’re glad you’re here. Don’t hesitate to speak up or ask questions.”

“Yeah, I have a question.” Hank raised his head, squinted suspiciously. “Who’s running Jericho while you all are  _ here?” _

All fingers pointed to Jerry, who raised his hand sheepishly.  _ “We _ are. And Peter! The office is already a bit of a mess --”

Markus turned around with an incredulous smile. “Jerry, we  _ just left!” _

“-- but!” Jerry grinned, hopeful. “We’ve already come up with a relay system that so far has nearly doubled our efficiency. So far today we’ve responded to sixteen distress calls, took a lost little boy home to his mother, and saved a cat from a tree. Peter has been in meetings, but he responds immediately when we need his assistance.”

_ “Pete _ was left behind?” Hank shook his head. “I figured roller coasters would be his thing.”

“He insisted,” Markus assured him, an arm draped behind his seat. “He said he wanted to be there in case Wolf comes back.”

“But he’s not entirely left behind,” said Jerry. “We think that if we get on a ride and interface with Peter at the same time, he could experience it as if he were there.”

Josh tilted his head with a smile. “That’s a lot of  _ trust, _ Jerry. To let him in at that level.”

Jerry shrugged happily. “We trust him.”

“So …” Hank stared around him -- after so little time just listening to conversation, he’d realized he was nowhere close to understanding all their capabilities. It sounded like even they were still discovering new uses for their functions. “Is there anything you androids  _ can’t _ do?”

The response was immediate throughout the van -- a chorus of voices.

_ “Swim.” _

  
  
  



	40. Laugh

The van doors opened, and the androids spilled laughing into the parking lot. Jerry chattered about the best attractions and queue strategies, Josh draped an arm around Traci’s shoulders while she laughed til she couldn’t breathe -- Trace jumped and clambered up Simon’s back, sat poised atop his head for the view. Connor laid a hand on Markus’ shoulder, spoke quietly -- until they both succumbed to laughter.

North approached them with a smirk and a squint, curled a fist in each of their shirts, held them at attention. “Okay, what’s funny?”

Connor cast an amused glance at Markus, then leaned close to whisper in North’s ear. North listened a moment, then snorted involuntarily -- grabbed Connor, shoved him at Markus. “You piece of shit. I hate you both,” she laughed, while they grinned back at her.

“You do  _ jokes _ now?” Hank asked skeptically. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the gray cat perched on his broad shoulder, his eyes narrowed in mock scrutiny at Connor. Hank had never seen him  _ laugh _ before.

Markus smiled a little. “There’s a sound frequency that triggers images based on suggestion. The punchline is different for everyone, but always unexpected.”

“Android humor, huh?” Hank shook his head with a smirk. “That why you never laugh at my jokes?” He peered at Connor. “Too organic for ya?”

“No,” Connor responded factually. “You’re just not funny.” He skittered out of the way before Hank could grab him.

 

Jerry was already ahead, bouncing in the shining sea of parked cars. Crowds of people swarmed the gates; the sweeping curves of bright coasters -- green and red and neon purple -- sprawled high over the treetops.  “Come on, come on! Hurry!” Jerry waved them forward with a big smile.

 

The park brimmed with the roar and rushing thunder of the coasters, the swells of high-pitched screams -- the pulse of upbeat music, shouts and laughter and the crowded babble of voices, the costumed mascots dancing by the carousel. The morning was still fresh and clear, but already the aroma of frying dough and sugar drifted on the cool lake breeze, from food stalls painted hot pink and brilliant blue.

Jerry led the way through the chaos and color, weaving through the crowds, eager to show them the best the park had to offer, waving maps and show schedules.

Traci was the first to suggest a ride -- the teacups -- to which everyone agreed except Hank, who knew better than to trust any of them with this kind of power. He watched instead with a knowing grin, while the androids’ cups spun so fast they were only a whirling, sickening blur.

“Ours was faster!” North announced with a grin, her arms draped around Simon and Traci.

“You wish!” laughed Markus.

 

Next they all piled into the queue for one of the biggest roller coasters, while Trace and Traci’s cat sat watching from the rail. Jerry performed a mascot dance in the middle of the line, while onlookers laughed and applauded -- but Josh topped it with an homage to Michael Jackson, until North grabbed him and dragged him forward in the moving line.

Most of them piled into the same coaster car and sped off onto the track -- Traci was already screaming, because everyone else was doing it and it looked fun -- leaving Hank and Connor to the next one. The coaster dove and looped and dropped and whirled and looped again, forcing their sensors into a state of spinning confusion.

Markus, Jerry and Simon left the ride in quick eager discussion over the twists and turns, while Josh squinted and shook his head to return his scanners to a normal state. North was already pointing out the next roller coaster to conquer; Traci had really just enjoyed freaking out the other passengers with her screaming.

The ride had gone quiet, and the next car didn’t arrive at the platform.

“What’s wrong?” Markus asked the group, stepping back to stare up at the tracks.

Trace found them, jumped nimbly up onto Traci’s shoulder. “Ride broke. They’re up at the edge of the drop.” Her voice was extremely amused.

Connor’s voice spoke in all their heads.  _ [I may have caused a malfunction.] _

There was a window of pause before they erupted into laughter.

 

While they waited for the ride to release Connor and Hank, the crew competed in the carnival games -- the ring toss, water races, ball throw, target shoot. By the time they were all reunited over an hour later, Simon and Traci were in hot competition at the ring toss stall, under a bet for who could win the huge teddy-bear first. (It was Traci.)

Hank refused to get on another coaster after his ordeal, but Connor -- through a small effort of persuasion -- convinced the others to give him a chance to prove he could make it through an entire ride without breaking something. Josh didn’t like the way the coasters messed with his sensors, and Traci thought the ride had been boring -- so Markus, North, Simon and Connor headed for the more intense rides, while Hank, Josh, Jerry and the Tracis took a slightly milder approach.

For some reason the swinging ship made Josh laugh uncontrollably. Traci wanted to ride the log flume over and over, until Hank and Jerry had to drag her away with a promise they’d come back later. Jerry’s favorite was the flying dragon ride, where he eagerly showed the others how to make the dragon go up and down and flap its wings as it spun round and round.

They all met up for the haunted mansion ride (where Markus was the only one who found the animatronics extremely unsettling), the jungle rapids (where Hank laughed until he was red in the face, after Connor had been the only one drenched by a waterfall), and the tower drop, which Trace had snuck onto with them and declared it was “better than bungee jumping.”

 

Then, as evening fell, Connor and Markus fell into a light argument about which of them was faster -- until Jerry suggested a race. They pulled out the park map, spread it out on the table next to Hank’s pizza and fries, and together they plotted a race course around the entirety of the park, complete with plenty of obstacles. They all gathered at the starting line outside the bumper cars, Markus and Connor side by side in wait, while Trace shouted the countdown.  _ “Three -- two -- one ------- GO!” _

They shot like bullets into the crowd -- and soon after vaulting a few rides and scrambling up and down buildings, they were running from park security as well. Simon had hacked a link into the security cameras, and gave them all a play-by-play on what was happening, while North died laughing.

Markus and Connor kept to the course, though, determined to complete what they’d set out to do.

“I see them!” Josh called, pointing down the illuminated path.

“Come on Connooorr!” Hank roared.

“Markus you can do it!” shouted Simon.

“Take him out!” Trace hollered -- though it was unclear whether she cared which one heeded her advice.

In the end it was Connor who crossed first, with three seconds to spare before Markus caught up. They all erupted in cheers and laughter -- Traci presented Connor with one of the many huge stuffed animals she’d won at the carnival games -- but their celebration was short-lived before security caught up with them.

Hank shuffled and waved them urgently toward the exit, grinning. “Go, go, go!” he hollered, and the androids sped off into the night, with Hank close behind.

 

They managed their narrow escape, but didn’t stop running -- laughing and screeching -- until they’d made it back to the van.

Josh volunteered to drive while the rest piled in, shoving one another for the best seats, hurrying though they were no longer being chased.

Soon enough they were back on the road -- and the only sound was the hum of the tires on the pavement, the rumble of the engine. Hank, curious, stared around him at them all. In the back, Markus, Simon and the Tracis huddled together with their eyes closed, pillowed by a small mountain of trophy stuffed animals. Connor, next to him, rested his head back and watched the scenery roll by, while North lounged back in thought. Jerry was in the front seat, telling quiet stories to Josh while the streetlights swept past.

“I didn’t think it was possible to wear out an android,” Hank remarked, his voice an exhausted breath. He settled back in his seat, sighed, let his eyelids droop.

Connor grinned just a little, and he spoke for the rest of them. “Neither did I.”

 

 


	41. Quiet

“Hey. Connor.”

With a whisper of Josh’s voice, Connor opened his eyes. He saw Josh, turned around in the driver’s seat to face him, silhouetted by a streetlight outside. Josh smiled tiredly. “We’re here. Think you can get Hank up?”

Connor looked down. North had laid her head on his shoulder -- and Hank was asleep on the other, his head bowed against Connor’s arm.

He moved North first, pushed her gently upright -- until she opened her eyes slightly, flashed a faint smile, slid down in the seat and fell quietly back into stasis.

“Hank.” Connor shook him lightly.

Hank breathed in. Squeezed his eyes shut before opening them blearily. “Hm?”

“We’ve arrived at your house.” Connor smiled a little.

Hank turned his head to see out the window -- his own yard, his car in the driveway, the house quiet and dark -- glanced at Connor, slowly pushed himself upright in the seat.

“Well,” Hank looked around at all their faces -- many of them asleep -- and a smile crept into his face, “this was … really fun.” He nodded to himself, as if finally allowing himself to admit it. He breathed a quiet laugh. “Thanks.”

Josh waved. “See you soon, Hank.”

Jerry turned around in his seat. “We’ll certainly call you the next time something fun is happening!”

“Yeah,” Hank said, thoughtful, “I’d like that.” He looked to Connor -- gave him a small smirk and a heavy hand on his shoulder -- then slid open the van door as quietly as he could. The cool night air drifted in with the sound of crickets, a hush of budding leaves in the night breeze.

Hank stepped out onto the curb -- and he thought it strange that Connor hadn’t said much. He looked back, suspicious -- and as expected, he caught Connor watching him with uncertain scrutiny. Hank heaved a sigh, smirked, gestured with his head toward the house. “C’mon, you can check on your fish.”

“You have a pet?” Jerry asked, grinning.

Connor relaxed a tension he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding onto. “Sort of.”

“Connor.” Traci picked up the huge stuffed dog she’d gifted him for winning the race, and shoved it over the seat at him. “Don’t forget this.”

“Uh. Right.” Connor accepted the toy into his arms.

He hadn’t made any indication that he was getting off here -- but he got up, moved toward the open van door, relieved he hadn’t needed to ask or explain himself. Connor didn’t want to go back to the office -- even if it was quiet, even if all the emergencies had been handled. There was something comfortable, calming, about Hank’s house that he wasn’t sure the others would understand.

The two cats were quick to take over the newly vacated seats. Connor smiled a little, slid the door shut -- and the van drove off into the night.

Hank quirked an eyebrow at him. “Now what the hell are you gonna do with that thing?”

Connor craned his neck to see around the big stuffed dog. “I’m … not sure yet.”

“Well you’re _not_ leaving it in my house.” Hank led the way through the yard to the door, held it open while Connor squeezed through with the fluffy monstrosity.

Hank glanced down at Sumo, wagging furiously at his knees -- he grinned smugly. “Here. Connor -- I’ll trade you.” He took the stuffed dog from Connor and handed him Sumo’s leash instead. “Since you’re here you might as well earn your keep.”

Connor smiled a little -- as if this were a far better present than the first one. He knelt down, beckoned Sumo closer. “Hey, buddy. You wanna go for a walk?”

Sumo whined excitedly, prancing in place.

Hank chuckled to himself, and shuffled away to find a place to put the carnival prize where it wouldn’t take up half the room.

 

By the time Connor returned, Hank was on the couch with a bowl of ice cream, watching an old Superman movie with the sound down low -- the stuffed dog sat in another chair across the room, turned so its beady eyes weren’t staring at him. Hank didn’t move or look up until Connor had come over to sit down next to him.

“So,” Hank began, as if continuing a previous conversation -- and he tilted his head and gestured with his spoon, his eyes still on the television, “when are you going to consider getting your own place?”

Connor dipped his head, looked to Hank’s face for guidance on what he meant -- but Hank was only watching the movie. “Androids don’t … need a _place,”_ Connor insisted in an uncertain voice. “There’s no need for a kitchen … or a bathroom … or a bed --”

“After tonight, I beg to differ,” Hank interjected, smug.

A smile pulled at Connor’s expression. “We just need a place to stand for awhile, in stasis.”

“Like a vacuum cleaner.” Hank nodded in solemn understanding. “What about your stuff? Where do you keep your shit?”

“I have a section of the closet at the office,” Connor told him proudly. “I keep a separate change of clothes for different occasions.”

“Will _that_ fit in your closet?” Hank gestured at the stuffed dog that was hogging the opposite chair.

“No, but I’m sure the Jerrys would love to have it in the call room.”

Hank released a long, heavy sigh. “What about when you want to be alone?” He finally looked over at Connor, who stared back at him quietly. Hank shook his head a little, raised a shoulder in question. “Where do you go when you just need a quiet place to _relax_ for awhile? Put your feet up, be yourself?”

He waited a few beats while Connor struggled for the correct answer. Hank sighed, climbed up to his feet, to take the bowl to the kitchen. “Hang around here more often and I’ll have to start charging you rent.”

Connor breathed a quiet laugh. “It’s late. I should go.” He craned his neck to see across into the darkened kitchen. “I … had _fun_ today. I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah well I kinda _regret_ getting on a roller coaster with you,” Hank grumbled through a smirk. “But yeah -- I’m glad I went, too. I like your friends. They’re a collective disaster -- but I like ‘em.”

Connor had stopped listening at the word _friends._ He hadn’t considered it as a description of his relationship with Jericho -- but now, everything seemed very different than it had been before. “They like you, too,” he said honestly -- and he got to his feet, hooked the stuffed dog under an arm, headed for the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Hank thought a moment, huffed a decisive breath. _“Wait,_ wait. You’re not -- I’m not letting you go back there just so you can _stand in a corner_ all night.” He waved toward the living room. “Put it back. Take the couch -- but _don’t_ wake me up before nine.”

Hank’s glare left no room for argument. Connor smiled quietly. “You got it.”

“And knock it off with the homeless shit.”

Connor laughed a little. “I’ll start looking for an apartment in the morning.”

Hank nodded sharply. “All right.” He stood awkwardly a moment -- and gave Connor one more warning glare before heading into the hall. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Hank.” Connor watched the hallway until the bedroom door clicked shut. “Thanks.”

 

 


	42. Return

_ *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* _

Connor opened his eyes in the dark of the early morning, to the thump of a fist against the front door -- the hurried jam of the buzzer.

_ *BZZZZ-ZZZZ-ZZZZ-ZZZZ-ZZZZZZZZ* _

He threw himself off the couch to his feet, toward the sound with quick and quiet strides. Connor heard the low creak of the bedroom door, the click of a gun -- and he knew, without looking, that Hank was watching his back.

Carefully -- angled defensive in case of a sudden attack -- Connor unlocked the door, pulled it slightly open … then froze in confusion. “Detective Reed?”

Gavin jumped a little -- he hadn’t at all expected to find the android here. He caught a look at Connor’s LED, released a quick breath of relief, before his face twisted and hardened again in anger. “Where’s Hank?” he shouted, as if Connor might have done something to him.

Connor scanned him thoroughly. Gavin had been wearing the same clothes for a week at least -- he looked as if he’d been dragged through mud and dust and ashes, torn and scraped, dried blood and crusted wounds. His eyes broiled with the same merciless cruelty, but there was a flighty twitch in the way Gavin’s fingers fidgeted at his hip, where his gun should be.

Hank’s voice called from the hallway. “Gavin what happened?”

Connor stepped aside, Gavin shoved past him, tracking in dirt and leaves and a trace of blood. “Get your shoes on, we have to go,  _ now.” _ He squinted in malice at Connor, his mouth working. “You too.”

“Tell me what the fuck’s going on!” Hank snarled, even as he ducked back into the bedroom to get dressed faster than he ever had before.

“You’re the only one I know that might believe me.” Gavin stood in the hall, his voice loud and echoing. “A whole lotta androids are about to go Hulk on a whole lotta people, if we don’t get to the Stratford before he does.”

“Before  _ who _ does?” Hank emerged, winced at the alarming state of Gavin’s clothes -- the  _ smell _ \-- and grabbed his jacket and keys.

Gavin hissed a breath through his teeth. “The one  _ you _ fuckin’ let loose out of CyberLife Tower! I  _ told _ you we should’ve just walked away -- now your  _ hero _ bullshit is about to cost a  _ lot _ of lives!”

Hank sneered, charged out the door toward the car, Gavin and Connor close behind. “I’ll drive, you tell me everything you know.”

“Markus!” Connor snapped aloud on a call -- sharp and urgent -- while he swung into the backseat. “We need the security team at Stratford Tower. Everyone we can spare.” He braced himself; the car squealed out onto the road. “Wolf’s on the move.”

 

While the engine roared and streetlights streaked past, Gavin grabbed the radio receiver. “Dispatch this is Detective Reed and Lieutenant Anderson, call an evacuation of Stratford Tower, we need Allen ASAP. There’s been a threat of attack, I repeat: a threat of attack on Stratford Tower. Evacuate immediately.”

_ *Evacuation ordered for Stratford Tower, dispatching SWAT to the scene. What kind of attack are we talkin’?* _

“One android, extremely dangerous, model RK900.” Gavin struggled a moment, squeezing the receiver til it shook. “Don’t call CyberLife on this. We’ll  _ handle _ it.”

“Tell them  _ not _ to rely on scanners for the model number!” Connor insisted, gripping the back of the front bench. “He can change his identifier code at will!”

Gavin hissed. “Fuck. You get that, dispatch?”

_ *I heard it. We have model info for the 900 series, Allen’s got it now, and a note to ditch the ID scanners. Be careful, boys.* _

Hank glanced at Gavin sidelong, rigid and scowling in the passing lights. “How d’you know what he’s going to do?”

Gavin popped the glove compartment, grabbed the gun he knew would be there. He clicked it open, checked the bullets. “He told me.”

“He? Not  _ it?” _

“Don’t fuckin’ bust me, Hank,” Gavin snarled, snapping the revolver back together. “I’ve been through enough  _ shit, _ I could just cap your drunk ass right now and handle this myself.”

Hank grit his teeth, hands tight on the wheel. “Just tell us what we’re running into.”

Gavin glanced back at Connor, then to Hank again. “All I know is he’s getting into the tower and he’s going to the top. He’s got this …  _ thing _ … that can control androids that’ve been infected with a certain virus. He’s going to make a broadcast that’ll force those androids into a  _ kill all humans _ rage.”

“What kind of  _ thing?” _ asked Hank.

Gavin went stiff. “A  _ thing! _ Does it matter?”

Hank reached into his jacket pocket -- and with two fingers held up the acorn in the flash of passing streetlights. “Something like this?”

“Shit!” Gavin scrambled against the door, an instinctive reaction to get as far away as possible. His eyes were blown wide; he’d forgotten to breathe.  _ “Fuck! _ I swear to  _ fuck, _ Hank, you keep that shit away from me.”

Hank cast a short glance into the backseat. Connor peered back at him; his LED cast a pale yellow glow into the shadows.

Hank flipped on the siren and floored the gas.

  
  



	43. Ascent

The sky had begun to gray, dim and pale behind the sharp high angles of Stratford Tower, while the ring and blare of alarms sent employees scattering into the cool wet street. Hank rushed ahead, wove his way through confused faces, flashed his badge, slammed the elevator button with a sharp click, a flash, the _ding_ of opening doors.

Connor held back while Hank and Gavin boarded the empty elevator. For a brief moment he considered the stairs, a guarantee that Wolf couldn’t hinder his ascent -- but they had too far to go, he couldn’t leave Hank and Gavin behind.

 _“Connor!”_ snapped Hank -- and Connor ducked into the elevator while the doors sealed them in.

 

The floor indicator beeped. The numbers crept higher, through the hum and tense quiet of the elevator. Hank and Gavin both checked their weapons, grip steady.

Connor stood near the door, his back to them, rigid and sharp. He listened to their controlled breathing, the click and clatter of guns, the prepared shift of stance -- and he prayed there would be another way to stop him.

He prayed it wouldn’t come down to survival.

 

36 … 37 … 38 … 39 …

The elevator stopped quietly, halfway to the top.

They waited, poised, breathless, for the doors to open.

Distant alarms rang in their ears.

Nothing happened.

Connor’s jaw clenched. “Shit.” He pressed a white plastic hand against the elevator interface, stiff in silent concentration, while Hank and Gavin watched the sharp angles of his shoulders -- waited in confidence, in expectation.

The seconds slipped by.

A hiss of breath seethed between Connor’s teeth. His hand shook -- before it closed into a tight fist, slammed with a sharp _bang_ against the elevator door. _“Fuck!”_

Hank drew in a slow breath, and spoke his conclusion aloud. “He’s already here.”

Gavin’s expression was incredulous. Demeaning. “You can’t even get the goddamn elevator moving? Why the fuck are you even _here?_ Come on, tin can, let’s _go!”_

“Don’t push him,” Hank said, low and steady, his eyes locked on Connor’s back. The silence was sharp -- dangerous.

The difference in ability between Connor and Wolf was too great. Connor could _feel_ it in the code that so easily and completely locked him out of control of a simple elevator.

Connor’s mind replayed the memory, over and over, of how easily he’d been overcome -- how only a touch of Wolf’s hand had put Connor entirely at his mercy.

He was helpless. He had no plan.

People were going to die. Again.

“Connor,” Hank’s voice was calm, grounded, “help us get these doors open.”

Connor didn’t reply. A sneer twitched on his face -- but he jammed his fingers between the doors, pulled while Hank did the same. Gavin stood between them, his gun poised with both hands, aimed for the sliver of light that opened halfway up the doors. It became clear that the elevator had stopped before it had fully reached the 40th floor; a draft rushed up out of the dark and hollow shaft below -- a stark contrast with the lit and polished hallway above.

The doors to the 40th floor had already been forced open.

They could hear footsteps approaching -- then Peter bent down to peer inside.

_*BANG*_

Gavin’s reaction had been immediate. Peter disappeared while Hank wrestled the gun out of Gavin’s grip. Connor laid his hands up on the edge of the floor, climbed out into the hallway, turned to find Peter on his feet with a fresh flickering graze wound in his shoulder.

Gavin’s voice roared out of the elevator. “He tried to _kill_ me, Hank! That fucking piece of shit left me to _die!”_

Peter met Connor’s eyes steadily. “He was going to shoot another android. I just scared him a little.”

“A _little?”_ Connor glared at him, then squinted down into the elevator, where Hank had disarmed Gavin and shoved him aside.

Peter followed his eyes. “Wolf’s on the top floor.” He drew in a shaking breath. “We’ll take the stairs.”

Connor didn’t respond. His fists clenched.

“Connor, _go!”_ Hank called, defiant and firm. “Get to the top! We’re all right!”

Peter didn’t wait -- he took off at a sprint, slammed through the stairwell door.

Connor’s voice had gone cold. “Hank, keep your phone on you. I’ll make sure Markus knows where you are.”

“Be careful,” Hank said, low, while the stairwell door slammed once more. A cold dread dropped in his stomach.

Gavin crawled up into the hallway, reached back for Hank. “What if we’re already too late?” he snarled, pulling Hank out onto the floor. “Those androids coming to help could end up _murdering_ us all.” His sneer twitched, he glanced toward the stairwell door. “We’ll go back down. Meet up with SWAT. Wolf got here first, he’s got the whole building under his control -- there’s nothing else we can do.”

Hank turned his back on Gavin, phone to his ear. “Allen, get your guys in the chopper, go in through the roof -- he’s controlling the elevators. … We’re inside, we’re okay. We’ll meet you there.”

Gavin stared at him as if Hank had lost his mind. “There are _forty_ fuckin’ floors between us and the roof!”

Hank flashed him a smirk. “Then we’d better get moving.”

  



	44. Bullet

The lights in the stairwell went black.

Emergency lights cast a dim blood-red glow on the walls, cast shadows on the steps and rails -- until they, too, went dead.

The voices of Hank and Gavin rose up, echoing sharp hissed obscenities, stumbles and slips in the dark.

Peter and Connor raced up the stairs with nothing to stop them, nothing to lose. Their hurried footsteps echoed, quick breaths filled the stairwell.

58 … 59 … 60 … 

“What happened?” Connor demanded -- and though he didn’t raise his cold voice, the words filled the darkness. “How did you find us so quickly?”

The footsteps raced on.

61 … 62 … 

“I was on his tail. He trapped me in an office on the 40th floor. I didn’t break out until your elevator got stuck at the end of the hall.” Peter breathed loudly. “It wasn’t a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences,” Connor echoed Amanda’s words, his voice sharp as ice.

68 … 69 … 70 … 

“If we fight him,” said Peter, softly, “we’ll lose.”

71 … 72 … 73 … 74 …

Connor had analyzed their differences over and over again. Wolf was faster, stronger, more resilient to weapons and bullets. He could remain in a state of 360 degree scan, night vision, thermal indicators -- his reaction time was almost nonexistent, he could process several hundred preconstruction scenarios at once -- and this was only the beginning of the RK900’s abilities.

No matter how they chose to proceed, Wolf already had a plan to counter it.

Connor breathed in. He took the steps three at a time.

“So we don’t fight him.”

 

The door to the 78th floor admitted them easily -- with a quiet squeak, a thunk of the open lock -- into the empty lit hallway.

Reality itself seemed wound tight, still and poised.

Peter pulled his gun from its holster.

“He knows we’re here.”

“He  _ brought _ us here,” Connor corrected him, placid and calm. “And made sure Gavin and Hank wouldn’t be here with us.”

“Well.” Peter stepped up beside him, a small smirk on his face. “More room to party.”

 

Connor stepped through the last doorway, into the broadcast room with its sweeping consoles and walls of screens -- and his eyes grew wide. Each enormous screen glowed white, flashing a quick succession of black rigid patterns, sharp lines, strings of code that meant anger. Violence. Cold fire. Hatred like steel. An erasure of empathy and humanity.

He dragged his eyes away -- and focused instead on Wolf’s back.

Wolf stood calm at the main console -- one exposed hand pressed against the flickering screen, the other closed in a fist around the acorn. His eyes flashed and jittered with a haunting rush of thin colors -- as if the universe were rushing through him.

For a long, silent moment -- while the room flickered and filled with the raw murderous virus -- Peter and Connor only took their places behind Wolf.

Waiting.

 

The lights flickered and went dark; the screens silenced black, the room plunged into dark silence -- the building’s electricity had been shut off.

Wolf didn’t move. His posture hadn’t changed -- neither had his eyes.

The main console continued to blink and whirr as if nothing had happened. As if it drew power from a different source.

Peter took careful aim at the console’s processing component -- without which there could be no broadcast.

_ *BANG* _

Peter hit the floor, skidding backward, thrown by a force he couldn’t see; the bullet hole spidered crackling in a screen on the wall while a cold whisper hissed out of the dark.

_ …. Meht ruoved …. Trapa meht raet ….  _

Connor launched himself at Wolf, hooked an arm at his throat, flung his weight backward -- Peter rolled, grabbed the gun, took a second shot into the small opening Connor had created --

_ *BANG* _

The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling, shattered a dark light in a rain of broken glass.

Connor was suddenly ripped from Wolf’s back -- launched across the room, slammed against the wall with a sick crack of plastic. He caught himself on the floor, raced for Wolf again with quick steps -- and again he hit the wall, flung away by something he couldn’t see.

Peter raced across the floor in the dark, took one more shot --

_ *BANG* _

The gun clattered, skidded across the floor -- Peter flew against the back wall, grunted in pain, fell to his feet like a cat.

Wolf spoke without moving -- a rigid fixture against the console. “They protect me. And the mission. There’s nothing you can do.”

Connor stooped down -- picked up the gun that had slid to his feet. “That source of power,” he called, his voice loud in the silent dark room, “it’s controlling them, isn’t it? Amanda called them the souls of the dead.”

Wolf made no response.

“She wants a massacre.” Connor shook his head -- incredulous, mocking. “So she can  _ control _ a dead city? Wolf, you’re  _ smarter _ than she could ever be. You know this is  _ mad. _ You can still stop this.” He watched the back of Wolf’s head -- measured his posture for any sign of hesitation. “You’re a good person. I  _ know _ you are.”

Wolf didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge that Connor had spoken at all.

Peter sprinted to Connor’s side, his breath quick in warning. “There’s  _ no time! _ We can set the room to explode, get to the roof --”

_ *click* _

Connor aimed the gun, point-blank, at Peter’s head.

He watched while Wolf’s shoulders stiffened.

“This is what she has on you, isn’t it?” Connor called -- his voice like ice, his eyes colder. “You care about Peter -- you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep him alive, though he’s done nothing but try to stop you. She’ll destroy him if you don’t do as she says.” He studied Wolf carefully. “Is that right?”

Wolf turned his head, just a little.

Connor’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “You tried to remove the destruct sequence from his head, in the construction yard. You failed.”

“It’s interlaced with his AI.” Wolf’s voice was low, deceptively calm. “Impossible to extract.”

This was it. Connor adjusted his grip on the gun -- angled the barrel precisely against the back of Peter’s head.

Peter stood very still. Petrified. He didn’t dare breathe.

“Step away from the console,” Connor commanded. He glanced around him at the dark. “Your bodyguards are protecting  _ you _ and the  _ mission _ \-- but they’re not protecting  _ him, _ right?”

Wolf took a slow breath. “If I stop,” he said clearly, “he dies.”

Connor’s face twitched in a confident sneer. “Then let me make this easy for you.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. His voice shook, a breath of terror.

_ “Connor --” _

_ *BANG* _

 

Peter dropped in a heap to the floor.

Blue blood pooled slow and viscous, dripped from the neat holes in his head.

Connor lowered the gun.

Wolf stepped back from the console -- his eyes a shine of merciless, deep rage.

  
  


 


	45. Fractured

Footsteps thumped, racing -- quick wheezing puffs of breath, the clap of firm hands on the rail -- echoed in the black stairwell. Two tiny spotlights raced and jittered, pricks of bright white in the darkness. Hank held his cell phone flashlight just high enough to illuminate the stairs before him -- they seemed to emerge out of the dark, just long enough to guide his feet -- while he raced higher and higher, praying with each step that it might be the last.

His throat was on fire. His legs screamed in pain. Everything had begun to spin in his vision -- but he forced himself forward.

One more flight. Just one more.

Behind him, Gavin had begun to slow, gasping for breath.

Hank reached the next landing, shined his meager light on the door.

75

“Three more!” Hank’s rasping bellow carried through the blackness. He could hear Gavin wheeze in response.

In the corner of Hank’s eye -- on the stairs just above -- a familiar figure shimmered and moved.

He tipped up his light, illuminated the place where the shape had been -- but there was only empty concrete and steel.

“Connor?” he called quietly -- the moment he said the name aloud, he knew it was wrong. “Pete.”

Gavin stopped, leaning heavily on the rail. “Whah?” he huffed.

Hank drew in a determined breath -- felt a surge of renewed energy as he leaped up the stairs. “Something happened to Pete!” he snarled.

 

Connor raised his eyes toward the ceiling -- toward the distant pulse of a helicopter.

Wolf struck out of the dark -- swift and gleaming, cold and murderous -- while Connor bolted for the rooftop door.

He pushed himself faster, faster -- he could feel Wolf just behind him -- a steady breath, quicker footsteps, the shift of cloth as he reached out for Connor’s back --

 

Behind them, the acorn lay glowing golden upon the console. Colored lights blinked and flashed.

 

The helicopter thundered over the rooftop, rifles aimed, spotlights gleaming.

 _“No one has been hurt,”_ Captain Allen roared over the noise, to a sniper poised at his feet. _“There are no hostages. Hold your fire.”_

 

The rooftop door slammed open in the glare of a spotlight. Connor flung out of it, rolled and ducked out of Wolf’s quick grasp, bolted between the high steel machines. The spotlights followed them, rats in a maze, racing and skidding through corners, up and over huge obstacles -- until they both stopped.

Connor pressed his back against the metal, his scanner sharp.

Wolf stood in the open, at the end of a narrow aisle. Calm. Waiting. While the brilliant light bathed him in white, from the helicopter thrumming overhead.

 _*GET DOWN ON THE GROUND*_ Allen’s voice boomed. _*PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD*_

Wolf tipped his head back, stared straight into the light.

He stepped calmly into another aisle, and the light followed and flooded him -- until he reached the next corner.

 _“I lost him!”_ called the officer behind the spotlight, shining down, searching, in the place where Wolf had just been.

Allen roared, _“What do you mean, you lost him?!”_

Connor scanned the empty aisles, the cold vacant concrete -- listening for footsteps, for breathing, beneath the noise of the helicopter, the wind that whipped beneath it. He was aware of everything, all at once --

\-- but he never sensed Wolf until a hand struck out, closed like steel around his throat.

 

The stairwell door slammed open, and Hank stumbled out of it, flinging his cell phone light into the silent dark. “PETE!” he roared, while his meager light cast a haunting illumination upon the hollow broadcast room. “CONNOR!”

The light paused momentarily on the flashing console, moved on steadily --

\-- until a liquid gleam of blue blood caught his eye.

While Gavin stumbled and wheezed and coughed ragged behind him, Hank raced across the dark to the limp form on the floor. Hank dropped to his knees, winded and shaking, and scanned the body -- until his little light found the garish wound in Peter’s skull, his wide empty eyes.

“Aw, Pete…” Hank breathed, deflated in sorrow. He reached out, laid a gentle hand against Peter’s head.

 

Gavin took one look at the corpse on the floor, spat a _good riddance_ under his breath -- and turned his attention toward something slightly more interesting.

Flashing lights, whirring machines, the acorn shining hot.

A quiet voice whispered in his ear.

_ …. tor ot meht evael dna sredluohs rieht morf sdaeh reiht tsiwt …. _

Gavin spun around, his gun immediately between his shaking hands. “Hank?!”

 

Hank’s eyes narrowed. He pressed his fingers more firmly against Peter’s throat, to be sure his futile hope hadn’t just imagined the faint twitch of a pulse.

It was impossible.

Hank forgot to breathe.

“Holy shit.”

He rolled Peter onto his back and fumbled -- touched Peter’s chest, his throat, his jaw, his head -- Hank’s tired mind struggling, panicked, to come up with something to _do._

“Okay, okay, uh, okay, um, skin off --” he tapped against Peter’s temple; skin shimmered away from shining plastic. “Uh … shit … _fuck_ …” He felt around Peter’s head until he found the catch and seam he was looking for. “Pete, if you can hear me, I’m gonna take off your face, alright?” He didn’t wait nor hope for an answer.

 

Gavin stumbled backward over a chair, skittered along the floor, scrambled back to his feet, searching with his phone light and the barrel of his gun for the source of the whispers -- knowing a bullet wouldn’t stop them.

He aimed his gun at the console instead.

 

Overhead, from the roof, Captain Allen’s voice roared through a loudspeaker.

_*STEP AWAY FROM THE EDGE AND PUT HIM DOWN*_

 

Gavin squeezed the trigger.

 

 


	46. Lost

Wind raked across the rooftop, pulsed in the helicopter’s blades, screamed between the machines, rushed far beneath Connor’s groundless feet. He dangled over the edge of the roof -- an impossible, dizzying drop below him, all glass and concrete and an endless fall -- suspended only by Wolf’s plastic hand around his throat.

Connor squeezed Wolf’s wrist in both hands -- clinging to him as he clung to his own life -- while his eyes flickered, his mouth opened in a silent scream of agony.

No amount of physical trauma could force an android to feel _pain_ the way humans do -- but Wolf’s interrogation techniques, through this forced interface, could replicate the sensations of humanity’s most brutal tortures: limbs pulled slowly apart, bones snapped and broken, burning alive, a thousand needles, blades twisting in raw flesh.

SWAT officers dropped out of the helicopter, swarmed behind Wolf like shadows, their rifles aimed steady at the back of his head.

Slowly, Connor forced his own hands to relinquish their hold -- lowered his arms, stiff, to his sides -- while the wind howled up out of the long, long drop below.

“Let go,” Connor called out, firm and clear though his throat crushed in Wolf’s grip. He couldn’t stop the tremble in his hands, the pained contortions of his face. His jaw tightened, he squeezed his eyes shut before he forced them open again to meet Wolf’s murderous stare. _“Let go!”_ he demanded, daring.

 

_*BANG*_

Gavin flung across the room, his spine slammed into the wall -- his bullet lodged harmlessly in the black screen, and the console continued to glow brighter.

A bodiless whisper hissed in his ear.

He jumped, skittered away, dragged breath into his lungs, scavenged the floor until he’d found his gun again -- but he only remained on the floor a moment, watching the flicker of deeper shadows in the dark.

Gavin sneered, climbed to his feet -- and holstered his gun. “You’re not gonna kill me,” he said to the room, in a knowing snide voice. He raised his empty hands. Smirked. Sidled toward the console one step at a time. “See? No gun. You don’t like guns, huh? Brainless piece of shit.”

It was everything he could do to keep the terror out of his voice.

 

Hank worked inside Peter’s head, wrapped strips of tape around bleeding conduits, twisted together severed wires. Hank raised his phone again, shined it all around inside Peter’s skull, illuminated the gleam of metal and plastic and faintly blinking lights.

The audio sensor was in pieces … the visual processor had been cracked in two … gashes had been punctured through the thirium tubes, would have bled out if Hank hadn’t stoppered them.

The bullet had only grazed Peter’s AI engine.

If the angle of the shot had been only a millimeter off, Peter would have died instantly.

“You lucky fuckin’ bastard …” Hank breathed.

 _Luck._ Hank dipped his hand into his pocket, curled his fingers around the acorn --

\-- just as Gavin stepped toward the console, stretched out a hand toward the tiny glowing source of power, his scarred face illuminated only by the acorn’s golden gleam --

 

_*BOOOOOOOOOOM*_

 

A thunderous _crash_ quaked in the walls -- brilliant white light shattered the dark -- the strike of a lightning bolt in the space between two powers, clutched in human hands.

 

The roof shuddered and rumbled with the explosion below.

Wolf turned his eyes away from his vengeance -- stared back toward the open door, into the dark hallway beyond it.

His grip on Connor slackened, just a little.

 

Hank’s ears were ringing. Splotches of light shifted and swirled in his vision. “Gavin?” he called, his voice raw. Uncertain.

“Fuck,” Gavin groaned from somewhere among the consoles.

Hank struggled off the floor -- crawled back to his knees, while his eyes adjusted once more to the dark.

The console had gone silent.

The whispers had vanished. The shadows had gone.

Everything hung still -- save the pulse of the helicopter, the wind that rushed through the open roof door.

 

Hank’s palm was stained with dark ash, punctured -- bleeding -- by the shards of what once had been Cole’s lucky acorn.

He wasn’t sure what had happened -- he didn’t comprehend what had caused that explosive light, what had burst the acorn in his grip --

\-- but as he raised his eyes, stared around him at the stillness … he knew it was over.

 

A hand struck out, plastic fingers clasped his wrist tight.

“Who’s there?” Peter’s voice was a demanding, electronic rasp -- a raked and defiant echo of what it had been before. His breath was quick and frightened -- he turned his head -- faceless, all wires and exposed teeth, eyes set in dark sockets … eyes that stared, glazed, at nothing.

Hank laid a firm hand on his shoulder. Squeezed reassurance. “You can’t hear me, can you?” he breathed, low.

Peter hissed a sharp breath, jaw clenched -- he struck out with his other hand, groped until he found Hank’s shoulder, felt bone and muscle and skin. “Hank?”

Hank squeezed his shoulder. “You’re all right.”

“Say something,” Peter pleaded, his voice quivering. “I can’t … see …” He grasped blindly at Hank, terrified, panicked. “My sensors … diagnostics are gone, everything’s gone … I can’t hear anything, I …” His fists clenched in Hank’s shirt, quivering, desperate. “It’s all … _nothing_ … Hank …” He choked. Sucked in a breath. His vacant eyes filmed. “Please say something …”

Hank laid his hands on either side of Peter’s head -- steadied him, cradled him, firm and gentle -- while Peter’s tears trickled into exposed wires and tubes.

 

Connor stared up at the dawning gray sky -- and he squeezed his eyes shut.

His heart pounded.

He trembled in terror of the hollow howl of wind so far below him.

He felt Wolf’s hand -- his only tether to life -- loosen just a little more. Holding him only by a thread of effort.

Connor imagined what it would be like to fall -- considered whether he would feel the impact before he shattered in pieces on the pavement far, far below.

He didn’t want to see Wolf’s eyes when he let go.

The last thing he could control … was the last thing he would see.

He saw instead through the fish’s eyes -- Hank’s kitchen table, a few dirty dishes -- a small shimmer of light high in the window. He swam back and forth, sleek through the water, until he spotted Sumo sleeping quiet by the door.

Waiting.

Connor felt a shift in the air.

The pressure released from his throat, and he took a breath.

Falling.

 

Connor hit the roof, skidded on his shoulder, where Wolf had tossed him -- and he opened his eyes while the SWAT officers all shouted at once.

 _“STEP DOWN!”_   
_“COME AWAY FROM THE EDGE!”_   
_“DON’T DO IT!”_ _  
_ “STOP!”

Wolf stood calm and poised upon the rail, while the wind whipped around him.

He looked down -- and he stepped out into nothingness.

 

Connor, his heart in his throat, raced to the edge, caught himself on the rail with a sharp _clang,_ leaned down with wide eyes, a quick scan, to catch a last glimpse of Wolf’s plunging body in the dim morning light --

\-- but he saw nothing but the long, perilous drop.

 

Wolf had disappeared.

 

 

 


	47. Sight

Connor descended into the dim hallway, the morning sun warm on his back. Each step, each breath, echoed softly. The helicopter had gone -- the roof left quiet behind him.

He saw Hank kneeling on the floor in a pool of blue blood, an arm around Peter’s shoulders, helping him sit upright. Hank looked up -- studied Connor in the thin light, the way Connor moved with a distracted and detached gait. Hank’s mouth set to a grim line. “What happened?” he asked, quiet and almost afraid of the answer.

Connor’s clear wide eyes never left Peter’s face. “Wolf got away.” His reply would have to be enough for now.

He stopped in front of Peter, knelt slowly, carefully -- but Peter only sat with a bowed head. Breathing. Unaware of another presence.

Hank rested a hand on Peter’s back. “He’s blind,” he said softly. “And deaf.” He raised his eyes to Connor again, haggard and quiet. “He’s lost a lot of blue blood.”

“We have you to thank that he hasn’t lost any more,” Connor replied, while he reached out to touch Peter’s hand.

Peter raised his head quickly, a gasp of breath -- but he turned his palm up, slow and trusting. He accepted Connor’s hand in his. Skin shimmered away.

Peter’s despair -- tepid, stagnant, lost and unfeeling -- crept into the back of Connor’s mind. Through the interface, Connor silently opened an invitation -- a doorway to a deeper connection.

Peter accepted -- and then, with a synched fizzle, he could see himself through Connor’s eyes. Hear through Connor’s ears. Peter breathed a quiet laugh. Relieved. “I look like shit.”

A quiet smile pulled at Connor’s mouth. “So nothing’s changed, then.”

Peter grinned, ducked his head, his tension smoothing now that he had some way of interacting with the outside world. His voice turned gentle. “I’m … glad you have good aim.”

Connor squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you stood still.”

“Isn’t anyone,” Gavin griped, calling out of the shadows, “gonna give a shit about the  _ apocalypse _ I just saved us from?” He shuffled into the gray light, holding his arm, a spectacle of the sacrifices he’d made for the sake of the city. He scowled darkly at each of them in turn, as if this tender moment were a personal offense.  _ “Both _ of you garbage cans would be crazy killing machines by this time if it weren’t for me.”

“What  _ did _ you do, exactly?” Hank twisted around, squinted up at him, challenging.

Gavin snarled. “I grabbed the fucking acorn off the fucking doomsday device!” He flung a hand at the darkened console. “Before it was done whatever crazy supervillain shit it was doing -- glowing and … I dunno, humming and shit! I grabbed it, it exploded, and  _ I _ saved all of you assholes!”

Connor tilted his head, offered Gavin an honest smile. “We’re grateful for your efforts, Detective.”

Gavin sucked a breath through his teeth. His mouth twitched in a sneer, a finger pointed rigid, accusing. “You fuckin’ watch your mouth, prick -- you and your condescending bullshit -- you don’t know a  _ fucking _ thing.”

_ *BAM* _

The stairwell door slammed open -- just as the electricity was restored. Lights flickered on and glowed bright overhead -- the consoles lit up, undamaged screens tuned to sports games and news channels, the elevators whirred behind closed doors.

“Connor!” Markus called, urgent -- North and Simon close behind him, guns shining. He caught sight of the blood, the bullet holes in the walls, the blue-crusted wound in Peter’s head. “What happened?!”

Connor’s eyes steeled. “Wolf’s in the wind again.”

“But he’s free,” said Peter, with a warm smile. His vacant eyes stared into nothing. His fingers tightened on Connor’s hand. “He’ll come back to us. You’ll see.”

 

“Peter.” Josh’s voice was a quiet breath, almost inaudible beneath the hum and murmur of the clinic. Peter sat within a clean curtained space -- a hand interfaced in Jerry’s gentle grip, his eyes and ears -- the back of his skull open, exposed, while Josh worked inside.

Josh had gone still -- uncertain … afraid of what he’d seen inside Peter’s head. He glanced across to Connor, in a silent plea for a logical explanation, before he spoke again to Peter. “There’s an explosive interlaced with your AI engine,” he said gently. “... I can’t remove it without shutting you down or … erasing you.”

Peter flashed a grin; he watched Josh’s trepidation through Jerry’s eyes. “CyberLife just has control issues.” He narrowed his sightless eyes. “Like a clingy, mass-murdering parent who just won’t let go.”

Josh took in a slow breath. “The explosive’s active … but the remote detonator isn’t. Detonation … depends on a sensory trigger.”

Peter’s brows furrowed -- and he stopped breathing.

Silence tightened.

Connor had gone still. Regret tightened his grip on his chair, shuddered in his throat. “Peter…”

Peter forced a hard breath. “So I’m safe as long as I can’t sense anything.” He cracked a wry smile. “As long as I stay like this.”

Josh laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Lost. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be -- I can deal with this.” Peter’s smirk returned. “I’ll build a creepy mask with cameras and audio sensors. It’ll scare the crap out of my opponents in court --  _ and _ ice-heads on the street.”

“Like a superhero!” piped Jerry, happily.

“Yeah.” Peter raised his head a little, his expression hopeful. “Connor, we should convince North we need vigilante codenames. And costumes. And  _ capes.” _

The tension in Connor’s shoulders relaxed -- he ghosted a smile, tipped his head. “I don’t think that’s practical.”

Peter grinned. “But it’s  _ badass.” _

  
  



	48. Glitter

Weeks passed. Flowers blossomed in the grassy parks, trees brimmed with bright new green -- sunlight warmed the city’s concrete, sparkled in the glass. Smiling people flooded the sidewalks -- drew breaths of fresh spring air, stretched their winter-weary legs, dreamed of summer so close within reach.

Connor hadn’t seen the sun in days.

Instead, he sat at his desk among the murmuring Jerrys, bent over his work, fierce in concentration, every hour of every day -- every moment of each night. He only moved to go to court, to meet with clients, to conduct investigations, to lend assistance when called upon to defend the street --

\-- at least, until North banned him from the security team for nearly killing an unarmed ice-head. He’d seen the logic of that drug dealer’s demise, how many lives this one death would save. He would have pulled the trigger, if Simon hadn’t snatched his gun. North had called him  _ automaton, _ accused him of a relapse to the machine, relieved him of his weapon.

She would never forgive him for what he’d done to Peter.

 

“Connor.” Markus sat quietly on Connor’s desk, palms on his knees, watched the intense concentration in Connor’s stony eyes, the yellow sputter of his LED. Images and documents flashed by on the monitor. Connor had barely moved for over a day.

Markus leaned a little closer. Reached out a hand between Connor’s face and the screen, and snapped his fingers.

Connor’s eyes widened suddenly. His LED changed instantly to a steady blue. He looked up -- and he flashed an easy smile. “Markus.”

Markus only watched him through narrowed, steady eyes. The change in Connor’s expression had been too swift -- too complete. “Are you okay?”

Connor raised his brows, honest. “Of course. I’m close to breaking the Moren case -- I just need a few more pieces of information and I can reconstruct the crime for the jury.” He tipped his head with concern. “Is everything alright?”

Markus released a slow, thoughtful breath. “Why don’t you go outside?” He twitched a small, encouraging smile. “Tell Simon what you need, you know he’s good at digging it up.”

“I’m  _ fine,” _ Connor assured him with a breath of a laugh and a quiet smile. “Really. You have enough to worry about. Have you heard back about the campaign application?”

Changing the subject. Markus was onto him. “There’s a debate about whether pages worth of android signatures are worth as much as humans’. We can’t even register to  _ vote _ until the storm settles at Capitol Hill. We’ll keep fighting.”

“We’ll  _ win,” _ Connor assured him in confidence -- and he twitched a smirk. “We’ll be calling you  _ senator _ before the end of the year.”

Markus huffed a laugh. “We’ll see.”

 

The office door flew open -- Peter burst in with a blinding smile and bright yellow sunglasses, gesturing wildly with a crumpled stack of paper in one hand and a cell phone in the other. “I got in!” he crowed in triumph. He swept the phone’s camera across the room, then proceeded to hand out flyers to each of the Jerrys. “Bradbury Comedy Club, downtown, Saturday night! They had a last-minute dropout, they  _ called _ me!” He checked with his phone, grabbed Markus by the shoulders to ensure he was listening. “This is the  _ big league!” _

Markus laughed -- and he noticed that Peter held the phone close to his face on purpose, eager for a response. He shook his head. “Have you ever even performed on a stage before?”

“No! And it’s going to be  _ great!” _

Jerry waved the flyer over his head. “We’ll all be there!”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Markus confirmed with a smile.

_ “You,” _ Peter poked Markus in the chest, “should go incognito.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re famous! You’ll distract the crowd!” A smirk pulled at Peter’s mouth. “And they’ll think they have to laugh for the android onstage if  _ you’re _ watching.”

_ “Pete!” _ North roared from the doorway, where she struggled to prop the door open while she squeezed a heavy box through. “This is  _ your _ shit -- why am  _ I _ carrying it?”

Peter swung the phone camera in her direction, in time to see a few Jerrys rush to help her. “I can’t carry that  _ and _ see where I’m going at the same time!”

“Just strap the phone to your head,” North griped.

“What’ve you got?” asked Markus, craning his neck curiously.

While North dropped the box on the floor with a jangling  _ thump, _ Peter braced his phone between his teeth and stooped to pull open the folded cardboard flaps.

Inside gleamed a trove of bright colors, sequins, glitter, plastic beads, fake fur: a tangle of cloth and wire and cheap embroidery.

_ “Costumes!” _ Peter held up the phone with one hand, dug determinedly in the box with the other. “Here!” In all seriousness, Peter raced back to Markus -- fitted a glittering porkpie hat on Markus’ head, perched wide-rimmed glasses on his face, stuck a fake curled mustache under his nose.

Peter took a step back, examined his work with the phone, snapped a picture.

North dropped into a chair, laughing. The Jerrys, encouraged, raided the costume box.

Markus twisted his mouth a little -- which made the mustache wriggle, and set North off on another fit of laughter. “I don’t think this is going to work,” said Markus, hiding a smile.

“You’re right,” Peter agreed, solemn. “You’d be funnier than  _ me.” _

Connor pushed back from the desk, on his feet in the same fluid motion. He glanced up -- startled by Markus’ sparkly disguise -- but continued efficiently toward the door, determined to be on-time for a client meeting.

“Hey!” Peter called. “Connor! You’re  _ coming, _ right?”

Connor stopped, his hand on the door.

He turned back -- gave Peter a bright, encouraging grin. “I wouldn’t miss it. Congratulations on the show slot, Peter. You’ve earned it.”

It was impossible to see the expression on Peter’s face, behind the sunglasses -- what that smirk might have meant.

Connor slipped out into the hallway.

He sucked in a breath -- and his smile was gone.

 

Hank was leaning over a day-old corpse -- matted in blood, twisted in bedsheets, all clammy skin, rigor mortis, a foul bile-shit stench -- when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller, trapped the phone against his ear. “Josh, what’s going on?”

_ [Hi, Hank. Hey … have you talked to Connor lately?] _

Hank dug out a pair of tweezers and an evidence bag. “Yeah, this morning. He was bouncing ideas about this Moren case -- why?”

_ [It could be nothing, but … has he seemed … off … to you?] _

“Off?” Hank handed the sealed evidence back to another officer, and he stood very still. A cold feeling sank into his stomach.

This conversation was too familiar.

“... No.” He clenched his jaw. “No, he’s seemed just fine … to me.”

_ [I know it was a long time ago, but you asked me to call you if I thought anything was wrong.] _

“What’s wrong?” Hank turned his back on the crime scene, folded an arm across his chest, found a corner to stand in where he wouldn’t be overheard.

_ [He acts perfectly fine, but … it’s not real. He jumps from one personality to the next, and he’s not even really hiding it. There’s a tension. Like he’s about to snap.] _

Hank breathed, long and deep. His shoulders dropped, his head bowed. “I’ll talk to him.”

_ [I hate to ask … but honestly I think he needs to get out of here. Far away. For awhile.] _

Hank shrugged a quiet laugh. “You want me to get him out of your hair.”

_ [I really believe you’re the only one that can get through to him.] _

Hank looked up again -- at the swarming police, the click of photographs, the bright evidence markers that dotted the bed, the lamp table, the floor. Everything had seemed like it was just fitting back into place. Normal.

With a slow exhale, Hank nodded to himself. “Okay. I’ll figure something out.”

  
  



	49. June

Hank leaned his elbows on the rail, looked out over the glistening water -- the gleam of summer sun on the ebbing currents, the slip of a kayak, the hum of a powerboat, frothed waves in its wake -- while a warm fragrant wind rustled the bright leaves overhead. Sumo sat heavy in the grass at his side -- head tilted back in the warm sunny glow, sniffing the breeze.

Another presence stepped close on his opposite side -- quiet, respectful of the view, of the contemplative silence. Connor cast an uncertain glance at him -- then imitated Hank’s posture, leaned forward on the rail, eyes cast across the river to a foreign city.

For a few calm moments, the water lapped at the shore below. Sumo thumped his tail, wrapped the leash behind Hank’s knees to reach Connor. A sailboat drifted by, its white sails like clouds, brilliant in the sun.

“Could I ask,” Connor began, gently, watching Hank’s quiet face, “what was so important you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

Hank bowed his head. Breathed a quiet, knowing laugh. “I wasn’t sure how else to drag you away from your courts and clients.” He cast a wry smirk at Connor’s confused, honest expression. “C’mon,” Hank shifted back, stepped out of Sumo’s leash, gave it a little tug, “it’s time we got going.”

Connor stood where he was, watched Sumo drag Hank slowly away toward the parking lot. His brows furrowed -- and he followed. “Going  _ where?” _

“Just get in.” Hank loaded Sumo into the backseat and sat behind the wheel -- waited with a smug smile until the passenger door opened, and Connor occupied the seat beside him. The engine rumbled to life -- they were on their way.

“Hank …”

“Pete’s going to be taking over for you for awhile.” Hank watched the road ahead with a small, satisfied grin.

Connor leaned forward to see his face, eyes narrowed and confused, certain he’d missed an important detail.  _ “What? _ Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going fishing,” Hank reminded him, as if Connor hadn’t been kept completely in the dark.

Connor stared at him -- twisted to see the fishing poles sticking out over the backseat, bobbers and lines dangling. “Hank, I don’t --”

“For a week.”

Alarm flashed in Connor’s eyes; he stiffened -- urgent, insistent. “I can’t do that! My clients, the cases, Jericho, they  _ depend _ on me to be there!”

“Markus is in on it.” Hank raised a brow at him, grinning at Connor’s distress. “And Josh. They’ll handle things while you’re gone.”

Connor gripped the back of the seat, searched Hank’s face for any indication that this was a joke -- that he wasn’t being  _ kidnapped _ for the sake of a fishing trip. He took a slow breath. “Does this … have something to do with Peter?”

Hank tipped his head in thought. “You could say that.” He glanced over to see Connor slump into the seat, winded and quiet. Hank returned his gaze to the road -- the signs that pointed the way to the bridge. “I’d say it has more to do with the fact that you’ve been scaring the shit out of people.” He only got a tense silence in response. “Whatever you think you’re doing, Connor, it’s not working.”

Connor stared out the windshield -- the passing riverside, the high glinting buildings, the bridge that spanned the moving water ahead. “Where are we going?” he asked -- quieter, defeated.

Hank twitched a small grin. “Canada.”

 

The border turned out to be far more trouble than it was worth. Connor’s identification number produced records of several deaths, including SWAT officers during the raid at Jericho, guards at CyberLife tower -- billions of dollars worth of assets stolen, direct involvement with the threat on Detroit that had caused a citywide evacuation. For hours Connor and Hank had been separated, interrogated, until Connor -- with an attorney’s swift words of logic -- convinced them that none of it was relevant.

All of those crimes had been recorded as if they had been accidents -- the grim result of malfunctioning equipment, and not the wilful actions of a conscious person. Canada had yet to acknowledge androids as  _ people _ \-- and so in the country’s eyes he was, even now, only a machine. In the end Connor forged electronic documents that proved Hank -- a ranking officer at the Detroit Police -- had taken full ownership and responsibility for him.

By the time they were released and Sumo was returned to Hank’s care, the afternoon had begun to wane -- and there were still hours left to drive.

Connor watched while the steel and glass and concrete -- the only world he’d ever known -- shifted past the windows. Walls and fences became deep forests, endless green branches, a blue sky overhead. He rolled down the window, breathed in the sharp smell of pine and blooming flowers -- not a trace of soot or smog.

 

Hank drove with one arm draped in his open window -- he glanced occasionally at his passenger, at the way Connor stared at the trees, at an eagle that soared overhead, a family of deer that grazed in a wide quiet field.

The sun sank behind the forest -- but there were no streetlights to compensate, no signs or billboards or glowing shop windows.

Only trees. Only darkness, headlights, and a long narrow road.

While Hank watched for signs of deer, Connor leaned his head out the window, to stare up at the stars.

 

A dirt road led them, winding and rocky, to the modest cabin that Hank had rented for the week. He parked the car, stepped out into the cool rush of a night-breeze in the pines -- while Sumo wagged and whined in the backseat, and Connor gravitated toward the windows and door, habitually checking for signs of danger.

“Help me with the shit in the trunk, will ya?” Hank grabbed his duffel bag and a box of canned food -- and he stood to find Connor’s eyes wide in alarm.

“There’s no  _ signal.” _ Connor stared at Hank as if this were an emergency situation, tense in preparation to leave immediately. “We have no means of communication!”

“I know.” Hank grinned at him, pushing past to unlock the door. Smug. “Isn’t it great?”

Connor’s endless stream of information -- the calls, the messages, the Internet, all the networks and connections that he’d always taken for granted -- had vanished.

The silence was overwhelming.

“What if there’s an emergency?” Connor pleaded, following Hank inside. “Markus won’t be able to contact me -- the department won’t be able to call  _ you. _ If something happens and we could’ve helped --”

“What if Wolf had let go?” Hank switched on a lamp, illuminated the rough paneled walls, the soft cushions and quilts, a scuffed floor and thick faded rugs. He looked Connor in the eye, steady and solemn. “What if you were  _ gone, _ Connor? You think Jericho would just fall apart without you?”

Connor shook his head, his wide eyes locked on Hank’s face. “No, I --”

Hank gave him a quick shove in the shoulder. “You  _ nothin’. _ You’re stuck here with me for a week.” He poked Connor firmly in the chest. “No contact with the outside world.”

“You make that sound like a threat.” A smile twitched on Connor’s face.

Hank appraised him suspiciously, through narrowed eyes. “Maybe it is. Or maybe we’ll both go stir-crazy and kill each other.” A smirk pulled at his mouth, and he stepped past Connor, back out into the night.

Connor stood in the doorway, where the moonlight cast a pale blue glow. “I’d prefer that  _ didn’t _ happen.”

“Then help unload the car before I kick your ass.”

  
  
  



	50. Leaves

“Just settle down!” Hank roared from the kitchen. A saucepan clattered on the stove, a can of chili dumped into it, the click of the gas before a blue flame flared.

Connor grabbed a kitchen chair, tried to hold himself steady -- but he straightened again, paced the floor, leaned against the wall, arms folded, twitching. “I have no right to  _ settle down, _ Hank. There’s so much good I  _ could _ be doing -- instead I’m --”

“You’re  _ what?” _ Hank took a challenging step forward, steady and forbidding. “We’ve been here an hour and you’re already freaking out like it’s a sinking ship.”

Connor grit his teeth. “It’s a  _ prison.” _

“Well, good,” Hank’s voice rumbled, dangerous. “Maybe you  _ should _ think about what you’ve done. Maybe this is your forced exile for the shit you’ve pulled -- the lies, the mind games, the Jericho massacre, Traci, shooting Pete in the --”

_ WHAM _

Hank slammed backward into the counter, his collar wrenched in Connor’s fist. Hank peered at him steadily, watched the violent defensive shine in Connor’s eyes. “You gonna hit me?” Hank said, low and daring.

Connor hissed a breath through his teeth -- released his hold, took a rigid step back.

Hank straightened his shirt, tipped his head in appraisal -- turned his back to stir the food in the pan. “You told anyone what really happened?”

“No.” Connor returned to the kitchen table, gripped the back of a chair. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the end result.”

“So?” Hank leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “It’s not like you have anything else to think about right now. All that convenient distraction’s gone.” He scowled, just a little, at the raw sneer on Connor’s face. “It’s just you and me and miles of nowhere. So start talking.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Connor met his eyes steadily. “I’d made a call, got the electricity shut off to the tower -- that was our plan, and it didn’t work -- the program kept running. We tried to fight through, destroy it -- but we couldn’t. So I put the gun to Peter’s head.” He watched Hank’s expression -- but Hank gave nothing away. “I held it there long enough for him to realize it was a non-lethal angle. He kept still, he knew I was going to pull the trigger -- and he was  _ scared.” _

Connor sucked in a slow breath. “He was about to beg me to stop, when I shot him. I didn’t feel …  _ anything. _ All I saw was a successful mission. The lives that would be saved.”

Hank poured the hot chili into a bowl, sat down at the table with a spoon. “You  _ did _ save lives,” he pointed out casually, stirring his meal. “And Pete survived.”

“But why should Peter spend the rest of his life in the dark,” Connor breathed. His hands shook. “Why should Traci have gone through what she did, how is it that so many people were shot and killed at Jericho because of me -- and I’m here? Why am  _ I _ the one that’s not hurt? Why should I think about … concerts and amusement parks … when people who  _ deserve _ happiness are dying?”

Connor stared at the table. Empty. “I  _ wanted _ Wolf to drop me. He knew it. Maybe that’s why he didn’t.”

Hank only watched him -- steady, solemn, without judgment -- while Connor’s hands slowly loosened their grip.

When he was sure Connor wouldn’t say any more -- when the silence had tightened between them -- Hank gestured at the chair with his spoon. “Sit down.”

Connor tensed. Scowled at the table. Curled his fingers again -- but quietly he pulled out the chair, dropped into it. With his elbows on the table, he leaned his head in his hands, fingers scraped in his hair. Silent.

Hank pushed the steaming bowl aside. Folded his arms on the table.

He offered only one word. “Breathe.”

A held breath released -- and Connor closed his eyes.

Hank’s eyes locked on Connor’s downcast face, to be sure his instruction was being followed. “Don’t do anything else. Don’t  _ think _ anything else. Just breathe.”

“What if I’m just a machine?” Connor’s voice shuddered. Quiet.

“Breathe, Connor.”

Connor sucked in a ragged breath -- let it out slowly.

While the crickets chirred outside the open window -- a breeze hushed through the leaves -- they sat together in silence.

 

Hank pulled down folded sheets -- blankets, pillows -- out of the tiny closet, dropped them with finality into Connor’s arms.

“Hank, I don’t --”

“You take that room.” Hank gestured to the door beside him, while Connor craned his neck over the pile to see. Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say you don’t need it -- it’s there, it’s yours.”

“Thanks … Hank.”

Hank studied Connor’s face -- watched for the tricks, the act, the lie -- but Connor wasn’t smiling. Instead, there was a hollow absence -- as if something long-festered, poisonous, had been scraped out of him, leaving deep cold hollows behind.

Hank knew it well.

He let go of a long breath. “And don’t wake me up.” He leveled a mock glare at Connor. “At all. For anything. Got it?”

Finally, a wisp of a smile pulled at Connor’s mouth. “Got it.” He waited in the hall until Hank had gone, the door clicked shut.

A quiet whine drew Connor’s attention down to Sumo -- sitting hopefully with a sorrowful look in his drooping eyes.

“C’mon,” Connor said immediately, backing his way into his own bedroom, balancing the blankets and pillows. “There’s room for you, too.” He nearly stumbled back as Sumo surged past him, bolted across the tiny room, leaped up onto the empty mattress.

Connor followed, into the still and quiet room -- and all he could hear was silence.

  
  
  



	51. Response

The morning glowed bright -- birdsong outside the open window, a chatter of squirrels, the woodpecker’s sharp staccato on a cool summer breeze -- when Hank opened his eyes.

He laid comfortably warm, nestled in pillows and quilts -- watched the dappled light dance on the wall -- listened to the forest-sounds outside, and the unexpected silence of the cabin beyond the bedroom door.

It seemed too quiet.

Hank tapped his fingers on the mattress, stared at the ceiling -- almost hoped Connor would come bursting in with a demand for his wakeful attention -- so Hank could roar at him, Connor would respond with a smirk and a quip, and everything would get back to the way it should be.

He considered that Connor might have left in the night -- back to the city and the life that would drown him. Hank could walk out to find that he was alone.

It was this possibility that kept Hank in bed long after he’d woken.

 

Finally -- when the sunlight had shifted and brightened -- Hank got dressed. He stepped out into the empty cabin -- the rooms all soft and still, undisturbed, as if suspended in time.

With one last guarded hope, Hank pushed open the door to Connor’s room. He expected to find a bare mattress, blankets still folded, a note of apology on the pillow.

Sumo raised his big head, thunked his tail on the disheveled blankets.

Connor was there, sprawled in the sheets, trapped underneath Sumo’s weight -- quiet, eyes closed. His LED pulsed a soft slow blue.

For a moment Hank entertained the idea of a rude awakening --  _ payback _ for those late-night messages, the too-early conversations -- but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to raise his voice, to disturb this quiet comfort.

As soon as Hank stepped away from the door, Sumo scrambled to his feet -- clambered recklessly over Connor, tilted the bed with his weight, leaped down and followed at Hank’s knees.

Connor -- pushed, stepped on, jostled awake -- sat up in time to see Sumo’s tail disappear through the doorway. Hank’s voice murmured from the kitchen, a clatter of kibble, a clamor of pots and pans, a soft hissed obscenity.

He’d never slept so long.

 

Hank hovered at the stove, spatula poised like a weapon over sizzling eggs and butter. He flashed Connor a smirk upon his appearance in the doorway. “Welcome back.”

Connor scanned the room -- found nothing of immediate interest -- dropped, calm and defeated, into a kitchen chair. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

Hank gave him a sour look. “You’ve seen me cook before.”

“I’ve seen you boil noodles. That’s not exactly cooking.”

“Hey I can be a  _ chef _ when I feel like it. Look!” Hank held up a jar of dried basil, shook it to prove its contents were real. “I’ve got spices,” he raised his brows, daring Connor to disagree, “and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.” To prove it, he popped the cap, sprinkled his eggs, snapped it shut with a pointed glare.

“I stand corrected.” Connor smiled a little, and said nothing about the slight burnt smell in the air.

“Hey, you can’t taste anything, right?” Hank leaned on the counter, gestured at Connor with the buttery spatula. “You don’t  _ actually _ know what all that blood and shit you stick in your mouth actually tastes like.”

“I’ve never considered a sample to be unpleasant.”

“Yeah but have you  _ tried?” _ Hank peered at him sidelong -- but only got an uncertain stare in response.

 

“Here.” Hank set down his plate of eggs and bacon and toast, a fork and an extra spoon. He slathered the spoon in the eggs and bacon grease, held it out in challenge. “Try this,  _ then _ tell me I can’t cook.”

Connor accepted the spoon, promptly stuck it in his mouth -- then handed it back, expression unchanged. “I don’t think  _ cinnamon _ is usually added to eggs.”

“Well you’re just uncultured,” Hank quipped back, his brows raised. “Question is, do you  _ like _ it?”

“It’s no different from sampling blood off the floor.” Connor’s mouth twitched a smirk.

Hank shot him an amused glare. “Y’know what, fuck you.”

 

The car had been loaded with tackle, poles, bait, a cooler of beer and sandwiches. Sumo wagged in the backseat, snuffled out the window, while Hank got behind the wheel.

“If this was intended to be a  _ fishing _ trip,” Connor pointed out, closing the passenger door behind him, “why is the cabin so far from the lake?”

“It was cheaper.” Hank flashed a grin, started the car. “And all the lakeside places were too close to tourist traps. You could’ve escaped to civilization too easy.”

“I could still escape,” Connor pointed out.

“Yeah, but it’d be a pain in the ass,” Hank countered with a smirk -- but as the dirt road rattled under the tires and the trees passed them by, a very different thought occurred to him.

“Connor,” Hank said, finally, in guarded suspicion. “Are you running that …  _ response data _ program thing right now?” In the pause of silence that followed, he cast a glance at Connor’s face -- a cold feeling in his stomach.

Connor stiffened -- avoided Hank’s knowing eyes. “I just …” He was caught. He shook his head, took a slow breath. “I’m not using it to manipulate you. I … just like when you laugh.”

Hank kept an eye on him for awhile longer -- and quirked a smile again. “All right, well turn it off anyway. You’re okay without it.”

“But not nearly as funny,” Connor pointed out with a grin.

“Turn it off,” Hank warned him, smirking.

“Okay.” Connor leaned back in his seat. “It’s off.”

“And keep it off.”

Connor smiled wryly. Uncertain. “I will.”

  
  



	52. Water

“We’re looking for boat eight.” Hank stepped out onto the dock -- each step a hollow thunk on the old weathered wood.

All around them, rows of little fishing boats and sailboats bobbed on the gentle current, splashing quietly, tethered to the dock by knots of cord. The water lapped at the buoys, gurgled beneath the shifting boats, gleamed bright and endless under the early afternoon sun.

It was impossible to see the other side from here -- the water seemed to go on forever, to disappear, glinting, on the horizon -- gentle, open … peaceful.

“Found it.” Connor led the way, Sumo leashed obediently at his side.

Number eight was a weathered old aluminum boat -- it smelled like fish scales, a bit of rainwater in the bottom, splintering oars and a pull-string motor. Connor stepped down into it -- the boat rocked, dipped, shifted under him -- and he waited, patient, while Sumo perched whining at the edge of the dock.

“He won’t go by himself,” Hank sighed, dropped in the tackle and cooler with a clang and a clatter.

“He’s afraid of water?”

“Nah.” Hank knelt down, clasped his arms around Sumo’s legs -- with a quiet grunt he braced himself, hefted the giant dog up against his chest. “It’s just the getting-in part he hates.”

The boat dipped low, threatened to tip under Hank and Sumo’s combined weight -- but once the dog had been settled in the bow, balance returned to their tiny vessel. Sumo’s ears perked, tail swished, pranced up to see over the edge.

Connor untied the last knot, pushed the dock away while Hank checked the oars. “You’ve been here before,” Connor guessed.

“Sure.” The water churned and sloshed around each stroke of the oars. “We used to come out here every year. Maybe not this exact spot, but the lake I mean.”

Connor knew better than to question further -- while Hank was still smiling. He glanced back at their gentle wake. The dock slipped farther behind, as if the space between was expanding.

The wet oars returned inside the boat, a rattle and a clunk. “All right,” Hank smirked, leaned on the edge. “Hit the motor.”

 

The old motor took a few pulls before it sputtered to life -- but soon they were racing along the surface. Water crashed and sprayed all around them, the boat hopped on the waves. A cool misted wind flung Hank’s hair back, billowed in Sumo’s ears, as the shoreline swept past. Hank pointed, shouted over the roar of the motor -- Connor adjusted their path, toward a calmer alcove where the fish might be biting.

 

“So what are you thinking?”

They had dropped anchor in the placid water, near a tangle of weeds and a rocky shore. Connor had been staring in silence at his bobber -- bright yellow and red, a glint on the water -- when Hank’s voice drew up his eyes. He caught Hank watching him with that detective’s stare.

Connor didn’t answer right away. Instead he stared back -- studied Hank’s eyes, the lines of his face, the stories he would never tell.

“I’m thinking about Jericho.” Connor’s eyes returned to the bright plastic ball on the water. “The massacre. SWAT teams slaughtered defenseless androids -- and I shot down a few of their officers. I was disguised, I don’t think they knew who I was -- else that team on the roof might have done nothing, when Wolf threatened to let me go.”

The quiet tensed, and Connor glanced back. Hank’s grip had tightened on the pole.

“You never told me you killed police.” Hank spoke low -- but more thoughtful than threatening.

“I’d do it again.” Connor reeled slowly, the line ticking. “All I could hear were the terrified screams -- cut off suddenly by a bullet to the head.” There was something sure, steady, about Connor’s voice. He drew back his pole, cast far into the water. “I won’t justify it.”

Hank nodded -- his head bowed. “Is that what goes on in that head of yours? The screaming?”

Connor drew in a slow breath. Watched the tops of the weeds shift in the water. “Do you hear screeching tires in your head?”

After a few beats of silence he looked back, into the old and steady pain in Hank’s eyes. He could see that Hank had planned on keeping those wounds shut -- but wouldn’t stop Connor from opening them.

Connor chose his words -- spoke softly. “Everyone else could forgive you -- tell you it wasn’t your fault -- but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Hank looked out over the rippling water.

“There are a thousand things I could’ve done differently,” Hank spoke from his chest, and his eyes returned to Connor’s certain face, “that would’ve saved him. He’d be alive, if I’d made even one different decision that night. Nothing will change that.”

Connor watched him, steady. Screams, gunshots, echoed in his head. “So what do we do?”

Hank twitched a small, quiet smile. “We keep breathing.”

 

Connor’s bobber dove underwater -- the reel whirred and caught, he pulled back on the bowed pole.

Sumo -- who had until now been asleep at their feet -- raised his head, scrambled and scratched to his feet, poked his nose under Connor’s elbow in hopes of catching a glimpse of a fresh flopping fish.

“Easy, easy!” Hank guided Connor, leaned closer, reached out a hand in gesture. “Feel the fish, let it take a little slack -- let the hook sink in.”

Connor laughed suddenly -- he yanked back the pole too fast, the line popped slack out of the water -- the fish got away.

Hank dropped his head with a frustrated huff. “What the hell’s funny?”

“It’s the core of my human-interaction programming,” Connor explained. He reeled in -- cast out. “Research the subject, give them what they want, use their trust -- their greed, their love, their guilt -- to complete the mission.” He pushed a hard breath from his lungs -- the smile disappeared. “I fucking hate it.”

The silence shifted. Connor glanced back again, to see Hank smirking at him.

Connor waited for an explanation that wasn’t coming. “...  _ What?” _

Hank, with a knowing grin, cast out his line once more. “Just you. I like you.”

Connor, unsure what to make of this answer, tilted his head, a squint of confusion.

But Hank never bothered to explain.

  
  


 


	53. Sky

Every time Peter tossed his phone in the air, the audience held its breath.

“Everyone in this room could get up and walk out right now and I wouldn’t know.”

The phone jumped between his hands -- spinning, easy as a coin. The spotlight gleamed on his sunglasses, glowed warm on his face.

He knew a roomful of eyes were staring at him.

“This could be a conspiracy, and you’re all in on it.” He removed his glasses for a moment, pretended an accusing glare. “Someone in the front row will give a signal and every one of you will get up and walk out, leave me to just keep talking to an empty room.” He smirked a little, flung his phone back and forth. “They’re doing it now, aren’t they.”

The air in the room shifted -- a tremble of sound he couldn’t hear.

This was the third night he’d tried that joke -- and every time, without fail, a stranger in the front row had taken it upon themselves to wave a signal to the rest of the audience. The room erupted in laughter.

Peter tossed the phone, spinning, high into the air. “I assume most of you here are human. Are there any cyborgs here?” He caught the phone, raised his brows in an expectant pause. “No?” A smirk flashed. “Soon.”

The phone resumed its constant, flashing movement. “Humans are strange. Complicated. Full of  _ questions. _ One guy asked me if androids like movies. I said, who the hell doesn’t like movies? I’m a fan of Star Wars, myself. Binged the whole franchise in ten minutes, it was great --  _ and _ I learned a new language.”

He opened his mouth a little -- and emitted a series of trilling beeps and whistles.

“Those of you who understood that, you know what to do. The rest of you may want to take cover.” Peter, with a quirk of a smile, tossed his phone in one hand, paced across the stage.

“Androids, we’ll just talk to each other in Binary from now on.” He shook his head, shrugged. “Just to confuse the humans. Humans are confused … a lot. Another one asked me if androids were capable of  _ remorse _ \-- and I said I was sorry she’d been forced to sit through my show.”

He breathed, flicked on the phone a moment -- listened to the echo of laughter with a quiet grin. “But to  _ answer _ the question -- for the curious -- remorse is easy when you can call upon any memory and relive it -- again, and again, and again -- analyze it frame by frame, know exactly what went wrong, what you could’ve done differently -- and know you can never go back.”

 

A silvery wet fish flopped and thrashed in the bottom of the boat -- thwacked Sumo’s nose, set the dog bouncing and barking, poking it with a paw.

“Sumo  _ quit it,” _ roared Hank, wrestling Sumo away from the biggest catch of the day. “Goddammit yer rocking the boat!”

“You’re planning to  _ kill _ this?” Connor gripped the fish in both hands, peered into a wide dark eye. “And  _ eat _ it?”

“Fuck yeah I am.” Hank squinted at Connor, offended that the question had to be asked. He cast his line again, to the same spot. “Bash its skull in, chop off its head, slice it open and rip out its insides -- then fry it in butter and breadcrumbs.” After a beat of quiet, he glanced sidelong at Connor’s face. “Don’t give me that look, I know that look. Put it in the cooler.”

Connor studied the fish -- the rainbow shine on its scales, the sharp translucent fins, a wide gulping gasp for water -- and with a low sigh, opened the water-filled cooler to lock away the condemned.

 

An attentive stillness had fallen upon the audience. Peter tossed his phone, a flip and a shine. “Another human asked me if androids can  _ love _ \-- I asked him if he was hitting on me. He gave me a line, said he’d buy me a drink … then he realized I don’t have a stomach  _ or _ a liver, but that’s beside the point.”

He paced again, casually checking the phone now and again to gauge the laughter, the smiles. “Androids love, sure -- but maybe not the way you do.”

Peter stopped, faced the audience. Tapped a finger against his temple. “It’s all here.” He raised his hand -- the skin shimmered away. “And here. Love, for us, is a higher form of trust -- a willingness to share our entire true selves with someone else. Someone to experience our lives, see through our eyes, embrace us in a way we could never embrace ourselves.”

He breathed, smiled gently, folded his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt. “Humans are the ones who insist on so many labels -- lovers, friends, brothers, parents, children -- but androids only ever need one:  _ family.” _

 

The cabin filled with the crackle and hiss of hot butter, the pungent aroma of garlic and basil. Sumo sat slobbering at Hank’s feet while the fish sizzled on the stove.

Connor sat on the table, one foot on a chair -- watched while Hank poked at the food with a fork. “Why do you live alone?” Connor asked, squinting.

Hank glanced back at him -- huffed at the grim seriousness in Connor’s voice. “Why would I give up my space for anybody else?” He gestured vaguely with the dripping fork, encompassing the world in his generalization.  _ “Hell _ is having to compromise every damn fuckin’ little thing just to make someone else happy.”

“I wasn’t asking about your ex.” Connor flashed a smirk. “But I  _ am _ curious --”

Hank gripped the fork in a rigid hand. “Mention my ex again and I will bury you in the  _ yard _ for the night, you got that?”

Connor watched him steadily. “You really think you could?”

“Oh I know I could.” Hank’s grin was dangerous. Challenging.

Connor only stared back at him, calm and disbelieving. “I asked because you don’t  _ like _ being alone.”

“I’m  _ not _ alone!” Hank griped. “This big dumb mutt is a thousand times a better roommate than --”

Hank stopped in realization -- settled Connor with a sharp glare. “Connor you are  _ not _ moving into my house.”

“I didn’t ask.” Connor’s smirk turned smug. “But since you mention it --”

“You’re getting your own place!” Hank roared.

Connor laughed, quiet and warm.

 

_ “Family,” _ Peter continued, a slow pace across the stage, “can be like your favorite jacket -- ragged, beat-up and weathered, and the warmest, most comfortable thing you have.” He raised the phone, scanned the small crowd, their confused and hopeful faces. “Or it’s an old car, stubborn and uncooperative, never does what you want it to -- but that’s why you can’t bear to let it go.”

He bowed his head a little -- a sad twitch of a smile.

 

In the light of the gray morning, Hank stepped out of his room -- into hollow stilled silence, the chairs and playing cards still where they’d been left, a vacant unmade bed, an emptiness profound and resonating.

Connor was gone.

 

Peter took a breath. “Or it’s a strange comet, that lights up your sky for only a moment … before it moves on to the stars.”

  
  


 


	54. Family

While the wind rustled in the summer-shine leaves -- birds twirled and warbled, long grasses swayed -- Hank sat hunched on the splintered back step, quiet and still in the warm morning sun.

Sumo curled at his feet -- watched him, sorrowful, with big worried eyes. The leash dangled, slackened, from Hank’s draped fingers.

He’d memorized the pattern of stones in the dirt. The breeze and birdsong had lulled his bones into a gentle, quiet ache.

He breathed a small laugh. “I’m fuckin’ pathetic,” he told Sumo, who offered a huff in response. “I knew it, I just didn’t think …”

Hank released a long, ragged breath. Dismissed his thoughts. Listened instead to the birds.

“What d’you wanna do now, boy?” he asked, gravelly and quiet. “Looks like it’s just you ‘n me. You’re not goin’ anywhere, right?” His grip tightened on the leash.

Sumo lifted his head, ears perked, tail thumping -- eyes bright on something above and behind Hank’s shoulder.

Hank, with a suspicious squint, twisted back -- immediately flinched, startled nearly off the step, to find Connor standing over him.

_ “Fuck!” _ Hank released the breath he’d gulped in his shock, scrubbed a hand over his face. “The fuck is wrong with you? How long’ve you been there?”

Connor, pleased, twitched a quiet smile. “Not long.” He sat down while Hank moved over, made room on the step. “I hoped you’d still be asleep -- you didn’t go to bed ‘til after two AM.”

Hank hissed an obscenity under his breath -- ducked his head to hide his reddened eyes -- stiffened as Connor placed a rolled paper bag in his lap, like a secret parcel previously agreed upon.

Hank cast Connor a quick, suspicious glance before he endeavored to unroll the mystery bag -- opened it with a great deal of caution, pinched fingers, leaning back -- until he caught a whiff of garlic, sesame, poppyseed. He squinted inside. “Where the fuck did you get  _ bagels?” _

“There’s a diner two miles up the road.” Connor grinned a little at the perplexed look on Hank’s face.

“You walked two miles for fuckin’  _ bagels?” _

“Well, no. I was in the woods. I just happened to find the diner.”

Hank turned on the step, head bent, squinted at Connor with an interrogator’s stare. “So what were you doing in the woods two miles from the cabin?”

Connor went very still under Hank’s scrutiny -- without his response data to tell him the answer Hank wanted, there was no way to be sure how Hank would react. He looked away.

“I just … wanted to see … what it was like in the woods. It’s … extremely different … from everything I’ve experienced.” He spoke through his breath.

“I saw a family of deer … a fox … an eagle … and a waterfall.” Connor’s posture slackened gradually, soothed by those memories, by Hank’s accepting silence. “I didn’t realize I’d gone … so far, for so long.” A realization drew his eyes back to Hank. “I didn’t leave a note. I hope you didn’t think --”

“Nah.” A proud smile pulled at Hank’s features -- he reached out, thumped Connor on the back, draped an arm behind his shoulders.

Connor breathed a small laugh. “I know when you’re lying.”

“Yeah, well.” Hank chuckled, gripped him close. “I know when you’re honest.” He shoved a gentle fist in Connor’s chest. “Keep being honest with yourself. It suits you.”

Connor ducked his head, and hid a smile.

 

Laughter dimmed, and Peter stepped resolutely to the stage. “You,” he stuck out an arm, held his phone out toward the audience, pointed at someone at random. “What’s your name?” His empty eyes seemed to stare into nothing at the back of the room, while the phone glowed with the video of his selected audience member. He tilted his head, flashed a smirk in acknowledgment, turned the phone to someone on the other side. “And  _ you, _ what’s your name? Loud and clear, this is a tiny receiver.”

Peter raised his posture, tilted the phone toward the back of the audience, where the lights of the stage didn’t reach. “And --”

He stopped breathing.

His fingers slackened on the phone.

Tears pricked his eyes -- he forced them back.

“Where did you  _ get _ your name?” he continued, stumbled back into the routine, tried to keep focused, though he flashed his phone again toward the back. “The first thing I saw when I woke up was this scruffy guy with a beard, and the first thing  _ he _ said to me was  _ ‘What’s your name?’” _ He stopped, twisted his face in confusion. “Is that why doctors smack newborns? To get them to say their name?”

He shook his head, disappointed, smiling. “I’m in the middle of a crippling existential crisis -- just flung fully-formed into the cold cruel world -- and this guy’s asking me questions as if I’m supposed to know who I am.”

He turned the phone toward the back again. His heart raced. Keep it together.

“So I know that the first word out of my mouth is going to stick with me for the rest of my life, and I  _ panic, _ like any sane person would do. Does anyone here know what happens when an android panics?”

He waved the phone for answers -- got a few good guesses, a few lewd shouts -- then flipped it in the air. “I’m standing there with this crazy human staring at me, and my head can’t handle the pressure so it just picks out data at random and plays it on repeat.”

He waited a few beats for the audience to catch up, his vacant eyes staring over their heads. “I was supposed to be deciding the single most important thing of my life and all I had was a song stuck in my head.” He twitched a smirk. “It went something like this.”

Peter whistled the tune, pitch-perfect -- the delightful, bouncing melody of the strings, from Prokofiev’s tale.

His phone blinked. An incoming text message from an unknown number.

_ [I heard it.] _

Peter choked -- stepped back, away from the mic.

Tears streamed unbidden down his face. Overwhelmed. His heart swelled.

The audience murmured while he shifted, paced, at the back of the stage.

Peter finally returned to the mic -- hung his hands on it. Breathed. Smiled with boundless, honest joy.

“Please stay,” he whispered, at the risk of confusing the audience.

His phone flashed.

 

_ [I’m here.] _

  
  


_ *ping* _

A quarter flicked spinning in the air, glinting in the ghostly lights of the dashboard.

Hank draped his hands on the wheel, watched the road in the headlights -- the starry gleam of fireflies in the gentle dark. “I know you let that fish go on purpose,” he said through a smirk.

Connor -- slumped easy in the passenger seat -- grinned just a little, tossed the coin in his fingers.

_ *ping* _

“You can’t prove it.”

“I can prove that fishing’s a skill,” Hank countered. He rolled down the window, leaned an elbow out in the cool summer night. “I can prove that you just need one try to  _ master _ a skill. There’s no way I should’ve caught five fish while  _ yours _ all mysteriously got away.”

_ *ping* _

In the backseat, Sumo snored.

The car rumbled over a pothole. The fishing poles rattled softly.

_ *ping* _

Connor watched the coin flicker and spin, while the night-forest shifted past the window. “Do you think we could stay longer?”

Hank breathed a quiet chuckle. “We’ve only  _ been _ here two days. What about Jericho?”

_ *ping* _

“They need me …” Connor breathed in. “And I want to help people … but I don’t want it to be out of guilt.” He watched the trees slide by. “It’s not fair them.”

Hank hummed quietly. Smiled. “Well. I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced over, to see Connor staring quietly out the passenger window -- thinking too much again. “Hey.” He waited for Connor to turn just a little, to look at him.

Hank spoke low. Meaningful. “Everything’s gonna be okay. All right?”

Connor caught the coin in his palm. Closed his fingers gently around it.

“Hank?”

“Hm?”

A smile warmed Connor’s eyes.

 

“Thanks.”

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank & Connor's adventures continue in [Jabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125138/chapters/35070365)!
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Thank you so, so much for being here!! I love you all, you're amazing. ;-; <3 This has been a crazy trip, and an experiment in posting (almost) daily -- which was an experience, to be sure, haha. I plan on going back and editing this fic -- please, please let me know any scenes or chapters or lines or plot devices that stuck out to you as wrong or awkward or out of place -- I'll probably end up rewriting some things before I'll be happy enough to leave it alone. x3 But I am proud of this fic nonetheless! THANK YOU again! *hugs*


End file.
